


Music for John

by ampersand_ch



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Classical Music, Desire, Diary/Journal, Explicit Sexual Content, Fireworks, First Time, Friends to Lovers, Friendship/Love, Johnlock Roulette, M/M, Music Creation, Musical Instruments, Romantic Friendship, Sherlock Plays the Violin, Sherlock's Violin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-16
Updated: 2016-03-16
Packaged: 2018-05-26 22:59:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 25,187
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6259129
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ampersand_ch/pseuds/ampersand_ch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock can't sleep and seeks comfort in his violin. And as he spends night after night immersed in music, it becomes clear to him what's causing his insomnia.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Theme

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SwissMiss](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SwissMiss/gifts).
  * A translation of [Musik für John](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3312320) by [ampersand_ch](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ampersand_ch/pseuds/ampersand_ch). 



> My special thanks to SwissMiss!  
> She translated this story from German into English.  
> I never thought that someone would have the courage to accept the challenge. Because the translation calls for a special knowledge in musical instruments and music theory and also a deepened understanding of music and how to compose.  
> I am aware of what an enormous effort it must have been to research the correct terminology and all the details about how to play the violin.  
> Even leaving out these facts, still remains my admiration for the incredible translation work SwissMiss has done and keeps on doing.  
> THANK YOU!

Sherlock woke up disorientated. He was lying on the couch in the living room. It was dark. One of the windows was open. The room was heavy with the summer heat. Light scatter from the street illuminated the room dimly. In the background the noise of the city, a ceaseless, neverending roar. Cars, subway trains, people, the Thames, fate. An undifferentiated veil, far and distant. In the foreground the leisurely ticking of the old clock. It counted out the time, no hurry, divided the present into manageable bits. Inexorable. Second by second. _Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock._

Sherlock ran his hand down his face. He must have fallen asleep. Exhaustion. Maybe it had been exhaustion. He hadn't slept in quite a while. And now he felt tired and drained. Empty. A couple of hours anyway, that was something. He got up and went to the window. The night reigned humid outside. A church clock sounded out three-quarters of the hour somewhere. He didn't want to know which hour. Irrelevant.

Sherlock closed the window, shutting out the city, and reached for his violin case. It had been a while. Tightened the bow. Rosin. The instrument felt warm and familiar in his hand. A above middle C. The string vibrated at a frequency of 442 hertz. Two hertz too high. His perfect pitch was both a blessing and a curse. Generally it was torture. Actually, it was always torture. Sometimes he cursed it. But there was also something comforting in being so certain in his perception. In enjoying the beauty, the beauty of a pure A440, the foundation of all of music, the note which his instrument responded to. 

Sherlock loosened the string, tuned it to 440 from below. A revelation. Rounded. Precise. Familiar. An anchor, an absolute zero of music, the point at which physics, intellect, technology, handcraft, and the senses converged, from which everything originated, all the beauty of western musical culture.

Sherlock tuned the other strings to the standard pitch. A perfect fifth. What a pleasure a perfect fifth was! The clarity when the quavering caused by the slight difference in frequency between the two tones suddenly faded, merging into the overtones, resolved into one, exact and true. Reduced to that breathtaking serenity and power. Sherlock closed his eyes. He tuned the instrument slowly and deliberately. An extremely sensual experience. A highly intellectual process. The vibrations. Synchronising them, hearing the purity, seeing it, feeling it, taking pleasure in it. The resonance of the instrument, a masterpiece of art, of science, of sensuality. The violin. His violin. 

Somewhere, somewhen, a master of his craft had built this instrument, given it a unique depth, an astonishingly warm voice, one that was hidden, that only revealed itself to someone who opened themselves to it. Opened themselves completely. Opened their ear to the material, the wood, the vibration, the strings, the finger positions, the pressure of the bow. Who gave up everything. For it. His violin. Sherlock loved it more than anything. He shuddered at the thought that it was a work of man.

Now play! He let his fingers feel their way across the violin, over the strings, left the bow to the equilibrium of the material, to his ear, his intuition. He let his hands play. They played around with the fingerings, surprising him by landing on _Auld Lang Syne_. Sherlock didn't know why the choice had fallen on that old song. It ensnared his ear, his heart, his head, his fingers, the strings, the wood, the bow. He played the melody, carefully following its trail. The tentative first verse was succeeded by a clear, confident second. A gentle third. The traditional tune touched something deep inside him. The straightforwardness of the melody, its clarity and strength, with that profound melancholy in the background. The feeling of warmth and familiarity, the longing, the sadness and the loneliness. 

Sherlock started to play around with the melody, played turns and slides, embellished it, improvised over it, carefully, without harming it, without disturbing the emotions behind it. Memories. Sadness. Homesickness. Sherlock abruptly removed the bow from the strings. The song reminded him of John.

John had been gone for four days. Four days and nights in which Sherlock hadn't slept. John was at his sister's. That was all. Visiting. He'd be back. Sherlock stared through the pane at the street lamp in front of the window. 

_And there's a hand, my trusty fiere, and gie's a hand o'thine._

The song was stuck in his head. He set down the violin and bow, flung open the window, breathed in the hot, used summer air that immediately came in. It smelt of exhaust, crude oil, chlorine, stagnant water, sweat and sun block. Sherlock inhaled it greedily into this lungs. A strange, bewildering world. 

Then he paced around the living room. Back and forth. Restless. Directionless. Back and forth. Back and forth. As he had all the other nights. Unsettled. This couldn't be. Couldn't be. He wasn't able to sleep when John wasn't there. Couldn't settle down, couldn't relax. John was missing. Wasn't sitting in his chair, wasn't mucking about in the kitchen, wasn't sleeping upstairs in his room. That would have been enough. It would have been enough to know: John is here. But he wasn't.

Dozens of text messages every day. Bearing witness to the fact that John was thinking of him. Thinking of him constantly. All day. Just like Sherlock thought of him. Constantly. During the day. John slept at night. Sherlock didn't. His smart phone lay on the table. Sherlock picked it up. No new messages. He kept pacing. The song was still stuck in his head. 

Sherlock stopped. He closed the window, picked up the violin and bow again, drew a long series of fast, vehement arpeggios across the strings until his bow hand hurt and the song was gone. Then he re-tuned the instrument. He didn't allow any dissonance, no matter how small, no imperfections in the purity, no deviations.

The G string. He drew the bow across it, gently, let it vibrate. A sonorous tone, soft and full. The sound was astonishing for such a low note, even with an open string, surprising, every time, extraordinary. What a miraculous instrument! Sherlock played on the G string, ran through the finger positions, added the D string, listened to the change through the fingerings, the change in strings, tried to overcome the technical bumps with broad, agogic accents. The jump up a sixth, mellow but also creating an opening. A motif. 

Sherlock played with it, looked for more notes. The start of a theme. It opened up right away with the sixth, only to withdraw again, approaching the sixth again, light, hesitant, finally hit it after several playful tries, only to back away again, slowly, staggering drunkenly to the ground. As if everything had been fulfilled.

It wasn't until Sherlock reached the tonic by playing up a whole tone that he realised he was playing in a minor key, and that the poles of his melody were the subtonic and the dominant, dancing around each other in a completely different context than he'd initially assumed. And that they met in a common key note that lay between them.

Sherlock paused, surprised. He had let his fingers play, not analysing the sequence of notes until now. It was a fascinating theme. Actually two, an ascending one and a second, descending one. One that breathed in, another that breathed out. Sherlock knew immediately that he was going to compose something with it. A piece. Maybe even variations. Maybe for John. That seemed to be a task he could occupy himself with over the upcoming days and nights to fill the time.

 

_Author's note: For those who know something about music and want to play around with Sherlock's melody: C A F G A / F G B♭ A G F E C D_


	2. Variation 1

When the day dawned, Sherlock closed the blinds and pulled the blackout curtains. He made himself some tea, ate the piece of apple pie Mrs Hudson had brought – and which had sat untouched in the refrigerator for the past two days. The world was waking up outside. Five in the morning. He needed to sleep. To eat. John would want him to, would pay attention to things like that. To him. To his health. To the way he lived. John would take care of him, guide him, watch out for him. Give him structure, direction, routine. But John wasn't there.

Sherlock closed his eyes and the theme of his music inundated him, along with the realisation that John's absence had taken the rug out from under his feet, disordered his emotions and unsettled him. Their closeness became tangible with physical distance, and it hurt. The connection. The responsibility that went with it.

Yes, he'd considered it. There was a hiding place in the flat. One that John didn't know about. A secret from a dark time. A time without John. Without structure. Without connections. Without a counterpart. Morphine. Tuning out. Forgetting. Drifting away. Another world. Another place. Dozing. Killing time. Empty time. _Tick. Tock._ Time with no content. _Tick. Tock._ Just time. Time for himself. Time that kept marching on without any influence from outside. _Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock._ He was free. John was away. This was his time. His time alone. Even if he wasted it. It belonged to him. Only him. Did love correlate with order? Yes, he'd had the baggie in his hand. No, love didn't correlate with order. But it did with trust.

Ignoring it didn't work. Not anymore. Sherlock decided in favour of the other coping strategy that worked for him if ignoring the issue didn't, for some reason: diving in. Diving in headfirst and immersing himself in it, regardless of the consequences for himself or others. Observing with all his senses, sniffing out the smallest details, illuminating them from every angle, twisting and turning and thinking about it until it lost its significance, until a solution presented itself and it became boring and he got sick of it. Like with a case.

Sherlock sat down in his chair and picked up his violin. Played the melody. He'd written it down, analysed and disassembled it. He knew it by heart already, had it in his ear, in his fingers. It had a gentle yet distinct breaking point which also functioned as a culmination, a climax, unintentional, almost playful, as if fate had made an arbitrary decision at an unexpected point. 

Sherlock played through the key passage, softened it up with gentle ligatures. John's grey eyes. The smile in them. The smile that belonged to him, sometimes, in quiet moments, in the middle of an ordinary day. The melody slid easily into the dizzying descent, flirting, seeking, arrived at the tonic note jauntily, not rushed, only to begin the ascent again after a brief pause, springing spiritedly up in sixteenth notes. Quietness and merriment. A smile. John's smile.

Sherlock let the melody sink down below the tonic, explored the area underneath the already defined theme. His fingers found unfamiliar sequences, dusky longing, hidden beneath the obvious. Sometimes their eyes met, got caught up in each other, flinging open a field of truth between them. A moment of astonishment, a flash of confusion. Severed. Usually ending in them detaching, turning away, fleeing the unexplored field without taking a closer look. 

There had been one time, though, out in Regent's Park. They'd been walking beside each other for a while, not speaking; he'd said something to John then, and as John had turned toward him, lost in thought and still half a world away, it had been like stumbling across another world in his eyes. Deep, mellow grey. And that field between them. He'd forgot whatever it was he'd wanted to say. And for once, he hadn't retreated. Maybe because he'd been so startled, so fascinated, so taken by surprise. Because he trusted John. For several long moments. The truth between them. Warmth. Sadness. Longing. Unspoken. 

Sherlock's violin vibrated low and soft, close, very close to that tranquility. The flageolet climbed tentatively up from the depths, petering out at a dizzying height.

Sherlock lowered the violin. His pulse was pounding. He'd touched John, outside in the park in the midst of the old trees on the shore of the lake, laid his hand on John's bicep without losing eye contact. Felt the firm muscles and the body heat through the thin cotton jacket, then let his hand slide downward along John's arm. John had swallowed, his pupils wide, a hint of panic, and Sherlock had withdrawn his fingers before they could touch John's hand. Then they'd kept walking, and after a couple of false starts dropped any further attempts at starting a conversation, as if nothing had happened.

Sherlock took slow, deep breaths, set aside both the instrument and the bow, and wrote the variation down on the staff paper. As he wrote, he looked into the grey eyes. Then he played through what he'd written. Several times. Again and again. Listened, looked into the grey eyes inside him, made alterations, rejected, added, corrected, refined. The variation started out light-hearted and smiling, a cheerful dance that led into an unexpectedly dark middle section, a confusing, foreign yet familiar tune, ending with the high whistle tone and then, hesitant at first, picked up the smile again, repeated it without attaining the innocent gaiety of the first part again. There was no turning back as if nothing had happened.

Sherlock was satisfied. 'Smile,' he wrote above the lines of music. Then he crossed the word out and wrote 'Variation 1'. Music didn't need an explanatory note.


	3. Variation 2

11 a.m. Still no message from John.

_John? Have you gone missing? SH_

_Sherlock! Sorry. Just woke up. Late night yesterday. JW_

John sent a picture of himself between two women, one of them his sister Harry, the other a stranger. All three laughing, holding beers. Lanterns in the trees behind them. A party, obviously. A summer night party, John wrote. He said it was fun out there in the country, he'd laughed a lot, danced and talked. Nice people. And it got pleasantly cool at night. The sea air. And what was SHERLOCK doing all day?

Sherlock wrote back that London was suffocating in smog and hot air. He didn't go out unless it was absolutely necessary. He wrote that he'd rediscovered his violin and was playing a lot. Who was the woman next to John?

_My sister_ , John wrote. _You know her._

_Not Harry,_ Sherlock wrote back. _The other woman._

_Oh. Met her. Nina. Very nice. Quite funny._

_A date? SH_

_Something like that. JW_

_John! SH_

_Sherlock? JW_

_You're cheating on me! ;-) SH_

_Women are no competition for you, Sherlock. JW_

No competition? Sherlock's heart clenched uncomfortably. Something in his gut churned. Everyone was competition when it came to John. He was annoyed that he'd added the winking smiley to his text, making it look like he'd meant it as a joke. He was serious. Much more serious than John might suspect. Much more serious than he himself wanted to accept. He hated it when John dated women. He couldn't figure out John's relationships with women, had no control over what happened to John with them. He didn't trust the whole thing. It scared him, that John might leave him, move out of the flat they shared at some point, move in with a woman, maybe marry her, have a family, leave Sherlock behind.

_You know I hate that! SH_

_Sorry but she's irresistible. JW_

Blah-blah-blah! Sherlock tossed his phone angrily onto the couch and reached for the violin. Tightened the bow. Rosin. Tuning. A ritual that required calmness. Sherlock forced himself through it. Then he started in on his theme with brisk, detached strokes. Abrupt. Firm. Loud. Forceful. _I. Am. Here. I. Am. Hurt. Hurt. Hurt._

Sherlock ignored his phone's incoming message alert, pinned down the sequence of notes around the sixth. Strong. Demanding. _I. Hurt. I hurt. And you? You. John. Because of you. John. John..._

The theme broke down in the middle of the name, reeled, wobbled, slipped away. Sherlock felt his anger collapse, his grip eased off and weakened; he opened the hand holding the fingerboard, relaxed his bow hand. The entire weight of the bow rested on the open strings, teetered by the ferrule on the outermost tip of his middle finger. Feeble. Powerless. The sound nothing more than a creak. Laboured. Empty. He'd let go of everything. Given it all up. In its place a black flood that drained every fibre of his strength. The bow refused to make a sound. 

Sherlock paused, lowered both instrument and bow. His lack of words for the pain overwhelmed him. He stood there with his eyes closed, not moving. Every muscle in his body was limp, as if paralysed. Exhaustion shivered through him. A demon sucking all the energy from his body. Inside he raged, mauled and slashed at anything that came within reach. A horrific bloodbath for which there were no notes. The demon raged mutely, its reddened eyes flung open wide, blind with desperation. 

Sherlock shuddered. Hopelessness shook him, choking on fear and loneliness. Then he tore himself away, lifted the violin, a great effort, set the bow to the strings. There must be a language to describe this slaughter. The demon needed a voice. A sound. Something to give expression to this nightmare.

The paralysis. His bow hand disabled. His left hand helplessly wrapped around the fingerboard. Sherlock forced himself to take a deep breath. Get some air in his lungs. Gather strength. Rosin-infused horsehair scraped across silver-sheathed steel wire. Truculent friction caused the strings to groan. Sherlock increased the pressure, let the bow grate over the four strings, blocking all of them with his entire hand on the fingerboard. Undifferentiated. Tumult. Agitation. An untamed block of noise that combined with the ringing of his smart phone. Sherlock didn't pay it any heed. He pressed harder on the bow, sped up his motions. An infernal cacophony. The demon screamed. The volume at the limit of what the instrument could produce. The ribs hissed, the bridge whimpered, the sound post pressed gasping against the body. Hairs frayed off the bow. Sherlock moved his hand on the fingerboard closer, making the jumble of dissonances spiral higher and higher, until he hit the bridge. 

The phone fell silent. Sherlock blocked the bridge, greedy for chaos, leapt over it, shocked at the high-pitched lament of the instrument. A ghastly peeping and whining that hurt the ears and tore the heart bloody. Sherlock wielded the bow fast and breathless, reducing the pressure now, gradually, without losing any of his speed. The bow jumped. Sherlock let it jump, let the misery on the other side of the bridge trickle away in a wild staccato. 

Sherlock stopped playing, breathing heavily, stood there stunned, his mouth open, his shirt soaked through with sweat, staring at the skull on the mantelpiece with empty eyes. Then he started to pace. Frantic, driven by the hopeless confusion in his chest. Back and forth. Back and forth. Back and forth. After several minutes, he put down the instrument, cleaned the bow and loosened the hair. 

His phone rang. Sherlock went to the couch and picked it up. John. He refused the call. Two missed calls. One voice mail message, five new texts. Sherlock set the phone to mute and stuffed it under the couch cushions. Sweat dripped from his face. The stuffy midday heat squeezed into the dusky room through the walls and windows. Sherlock decided to take a shower, wondering even in his continued state of agitation how to capture the variation on paper.


	4. Variation 3

It cooled off a bit around two in the morning. Sherlock opened the window and let the night air stream in. It smelt of the smog that sat over London like a lid. But there was also a note of freshness to it. Maybe the trees of the nearby park with their photosynthesis. Maybe the Thames with its water.

Sherlock had slept a little, later in the afternoon, after he'd written down and reworked Variation 2. He'd added a short end sequence, three firm, low chords, like the distant rumble of thunder. Then Mrs Hudson had come up. A bowl of fresh fruit salad as her excuse. Asking how he was doing. Along with an urgent request to return John's call. He'd taken the fruit salad. And he'd asked Mrs Hudson not to concern herself with the other two things. That had been a mistake. He'd underestimated the old lady's temper. He'd let the rain of reproaches and rebukes wash over him, surprised at how perceptive his landlady was and how perfect her aim was in sprinkling salt into his wounds. 

_Take a look for once. Look at yourself. But that's beyond you, isn't it? You'd rather deduce other people and destroy yourself in the process. Talk to John! Take some responsibility for once in your life! For what's important. For what you are, Sherlock. Not for what you think you should be. Can you even tell the difference? No? Then try, for goodness' sake!_

Mrs Hudson had slammed the door behind herself with an angry gesture.

Sherlock had eaten the fruit salad a little later, and then rung John.

"No accusations please, John."

"Sherlock! Thank God!"

A moment of silence, John's heartbeat palpable through the ether, his own heart pounding. Noise in the background: dishes, fun, laughter.

"I'll get away and ring you back," John said. "Five minutes."

The conversation. Eyes closed, on the couch. John's voice in his ear. Closeness. Breath. An intimate conversation. Shy. Long. Intense in a way that wasn't possible between them when they were face to face. 

"I know you're jealous, Sherlock. I'm sorry. It's nothing serious, don't worry. Come down and let's spend the rest of the time together. Should I come home?"

"I'm composing, John, I want to finish it. The distance is good. It makes me creative."

"Do you even want me back now?" (insecure laughter)

"I miss you. It's the longing that makes me creative."

A long silence. Breath in his ear. Wordless. 

"We should go on holiday together, Sherlock."

"But not at Harry's."

"No, not at Harry's."

Sherlock had fallen asleep on the couch after they'd talked, the phone still in his hand.

The sleep had done him good. Sherlock stood at the open window, breathed in the night air. He felt warm, relaxed, soft around the edges. He sat down in the armchair with a sigh, opened the violin case. Took out the bow, removed the torn out hairs, re-tightened it, applied fresh rosin. Then he took out the instrument, used the microfibre cloth to clean the strings, the fingerboard, the tuning pegs, wiped his fingerprints off the body. 

After tuning it, he warmed up with the theme, improvised around it. There was no passion. Useless. He couldn't think of anything. Nothing other than the harmless lull of satisfaction. Three-quarter time. Awful. The only way to bear it was with lots of chatter and ornamentation. Banal.

Sherlock switched to six-eight time. Better. The chatter ordered itself, grouped itself into clear combinations, took on form, started to breathe in long, calm, agogic movements. Ribbons. Strings of beads. Water droplets. The current of the Thames. The rustling of the leaves in the trees of Regent's Park when the west wind blew through.

The storm in Southgate Woods. They'd been in the middle of the forest when it had come upon them unexpectedly. The trees creaked as they bowed to the strong grip of the gusts. Twigs smashed against each other. Leaves swirled through the air. Branches flew down. Trees buckled. Splintering, hissing, breaking, crashing. Ear-splitting noise. The wind forced itself into their airways, making it impossible to speak. The next moment, dust, needles, leaves and bits of wood whirled around them, slapping them in the face, in the neck, blinding them, finding its way into their mouths and noses. They ran, panicking, laughing, giggling. Hands over mouths and noses, a handkerchief, a t-shirt. 

A tree splintering nearby. John pulled Sherlock to cover, pressed him protectively against a tree trunk. A fir tree thundered to the ground, breaking through the crowns of the other trees, tearing twigs, branches, and leaves with it, cutting a swath of destruction through the woods. They huddled together. Sharp needles rained down on them. Something hit his hand, leaving a burning trail. 

Their eyes met, breathless, when it was over. The mighty trunk of the fir tree lay just a few metres away. The tip of a branch had grazed them. Sherlock's hand was bleeding. John had a scrape on his back. Then they ran on, hand in hand, gasping, not letting go until they'd reached the edge of the woods and safety.

Sherlock had stopped playing, lost in the memory. The hissing increasing and fading again in synchrony with the gusts of wind. The feeling of being safe at John's side. Sherlock set the bow to the strings. The theme shone through the motions of the six-eight ligatures as they ebbed and flowed, ceaselessly running. It developed slowly, a stable plainsong in the background, soft but clear, straightforward and simple. The moving top line followed the jump up a sixth, becoming dramatic and restless, almost panicky, when the plainsong reached the climax, lost faith, broke away, refused. It was slow to calm, even as the melody continued its progress undeterred in the background. Soft. Strong. Safe. A rock in the midst of the breakwaters where the restlessly wandering top line could gain a foothold, ever stronger, surrendering, following the safe, descending cadence of the melody and finally – after a stuttering ritardando, a final, brief hesitation – nestling into the tonic note. Into the arms of the plainsong.

Good. Sherlock wrote, made notations. Checked, corrected, reworked. Good. A stab. Spontaneous. Convincing. Variation 3.


	5. Intermezzo

The city groaned beneath the smog and dust. A humid, foetid heat lurked in London's alleyways. It was hard to breathe, every movement was torture. Sherlock didn't have any staff paper left. Nor any milk. The bread for toast was gone too. And he couldn't live on tea alone. He would need to leave the flat, there was no way around it. He could download and print out staff paper from the internet if he really needed to. But groceries... he needed to eat. And he was going to have to take care of it himself. John wasn't there. And music wasn't the same as a case. That was clear. The emotional effort he was expending on it was strenuous, took a lot out of him. It required him to eat. To sleep. To take care of himself, pay attention to himself. Required that he be lucid. And not only in his head.

_Need to go to the shops. Shame you aren't here. SH_

_You'd send me out in that heat? Cruel! JW_

_Wouldn't need to. You'd have done the shopping already. SH_

_I miss you too. JW_

The heat outside. Sherlock only ventured out into it grudgingly. The few minutes it took to get to the shops were enough to have him soaked with sweat. The air conditioned coolness of the supermarket, barely any customers. Pleasant. Sliced bread. Fruit. Some vegetables (only those that could be eaten raw). Milk. Yogurt? Why not. A little cheese. Frozen pizza. Biscuits. Wasn't hard. The stationer's across the way where he could buy staff paper. It was air-conditioned too, if not as much as the supermarket. A reason to linger, have a look around. Maybe life in the real world was easier than he'd imagined. Maybe it was good to simply do what needed to be done. 

Sherlock took the light-coloured, leather-bound display binder down from the shelf. John would like it; it was his style. Simple, traditional manufacture. His eye had been drawn to it immediately. It was heavier than he'd expected. Calfskin. The edges sewn. Sherlock turned it over in his hands, opened it, checked the seams. Lovely workmanship. The binder felt soft and agreeable in his hand. The leather was fine, pale, even and smooth. Sherlock ran his fingers over it, fascinated by the warm texture and the intimacy of the sensation. 

He started in surprise. He was thinking about John. Openly. And the touch of his fingers on the leather was causing physical reactions that didn't belong here, in this place. Heart palpitations. Heavy breathing. And a gentle heat throughout his whole body. His pulse in his groin. Affection. A deep sense of connection... he was in love! Sherlock was shocked at the sudden realisation. He hastily returned the binder to the shelf and virtually fled the stationer's, rushed home in distress. 

It wasn't until he was standing in front of the door to his house that he realised he hadn't bought any staff paper, and had left his shopping bag behind. He walked back in a state of confusion.

 

***

 

Sherlock lay on the couch all afternoon, staring into space. He struggled with this new knowledge regarding his emotions. Forced himself to think everything through carefully. To take all the facts into account. The symptoms were unambiguous. Physically, psychologically, mentally. He was in love.

All right. Being in love could be part of a normal friendship. Sherlock clung to the thought. A normal friendship. What was normal? His jealousy? Perhaps. John giving up women entirely for his sake? No. Thinking about John all the time? Maybe. Not being able to live without John? No. The longing to touch? Yes. Touch was an ancient ritual of affirmation. That was fine. The desire for exclusivity? No. A man needed a woman. And maybe a friend. Both. The two things covered different emotional fields in the life of a man. They existed alongside each other, concurrently with each other, without anyone being hurt. Marriage and friendship, those things were compatible. But he, Sherlock, didn't need a woman. Didn't want one. He also didn't need a friend. Didn't want one, didn't know what he'd do with one. He didn't need anyone. He was enough for himself. The thing with John was different. It was on a completely different level. John was... Fuck. It was all much more complicated than he'd thought at first.

Sherlock got up eventually and reached for the violin. Maybe some mental work would help. Composing. Focussing on the sequence of notes, rhythms. Analysing, considering, notating, editing. The next variation. Sherlock played the theme, but knew right away there was something wrong. The sixth wasn't enough. The second and the octave, ascending. Better. Then continuing upward. To the highest possible point. Stop. From the beginning. More deliberate this time, smoother. Upward. Unknown worlds. Stop. The threshhold. Again. More careful. More attentive. More sure of the goal. Tentative approaching the top. Soft. Stepping over the threshhold. Watchful. Senses alert until the end.

No, that had nothing to do with the theme. It wasn't a variation. The shy, gently ascending lines. Hope. Courting. Approach. The soft, unspectacular passing of the border. Incomprehensible to anyone who didn't have a sensitive enough ear to hear it, who couldn't recognise the value, the structure, the logic, the beauty. Hidden harmony. Sherlock became caught up in the cautious, gentle, aspiring movements, let himself be immersed in the feelings that pervaded him. This being-in-love, wishing, hoping, trembling, quaking, seeking, suffering. 

It crossed over into rambling passages that felt their way around their own confusion in small tonal steps, close together, testing reality. Temptation. Playing with fire. Dancing around the subject. This rocking, alluring, tender swaying and knocking and hoping and acceptance of the way things were. Oh! It was so much! Much more than he'd expected. A captivating, wistful melody. Sherlock was astonished. Was this really him? Was he the one playing these notes, inventing them? The melancholy. The tenderness. The allure. The patience. Was that him?

Sherlock broke off his playing. Dumbfounded, but still confident enough to reach for a pen and write down the sequence of notes. Inspired. Sherlock played through what he'd written. The lines striving upwards through several attempts. The threshhold. The consciousness of what was perceivable. No, this melody was not sweet. It was austere, yet tender. It wasn't without questions, not without doubt, not without fear. A heartbeat pulsed in the background. And even as Sherlock played, he knew that this wasn't all. There was more. He closed his eyes, let the instrument find its own way, let it sing, let it express what he was undergoing, what he was feeling, what he saw and knew. 

It found its way in a quiet but powerful, sonorous simplicity, straightforward and clear. The familiarity with John, older and deeper than anything else between them. Older even than their acquaintance. A connection they'd both registered with astonishment the first time they'd laid eyes on each other. An ancient, implacable knowledge. A bond, unbreakable, hidden and guarded beneath the surface. A simple line. Sherlock played it, shaken. Touched by its purity and strength. He allowed the deeply rooted sensations, foreign yet familiar, sank all the way down to the foundation of what his life was made of. John was woven into the fabric there. Inextricably.

Sherlock set the instrument aside, wiped the tears out of his eyes with the back of his hand, not even realising that he was doing it, before he started with the notation. He saw the strong line before him, needed only to write it down. It was so familiar. So simple. So immediate.

There wasn't much to correct this time. The song was in four parts, as complex as a sonata. The fluctuating turns followed the ascending motif. The simple, clear line was the heart of the piece. Sherlock added a more complex ending that picked up both the upward motif and the more volatile one, weaving the essence into the synthesis of the two. Only four beats. A long, deep breath. The piece ended on a single clear note lasting four more beats. G string. Rather than fading away, it remained steadfast, upright, unwavering, then cut off on the beat, quiet and precise. Unspectacular. Breathtaking.

Sherlock was on edge when he finished the piece. He played it over and over, unable to find anything he could change, anything he might have worked on. He paced back and forth in the living room. Back and forth. Back and forth. The clock on the wall held him back. _Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock._

An overwhelming, burning, desperate rage overcame him. He tore the heirloom piece off the wall and smashed it against the floor. The dark, laquered walnut casing splintered, the enamel clock face broke through the crystal glass cover, the clockwork mechanism fell apart, releasing rods and gears. The rattling oscillation of the now crooked spring lasted a few more seconds, and then it was still.

Sherlock felt as if he'd been scraped raw, his nerves jangling. He went into the kitchen, distraught, and gulped down the cold tea from that morning. Drank some more water from the tap. He was thirsty, incredibly thirsty. He was soaked with sweat, and the liquids he took in ended up coming right back out through his skin a few seconds later in another outbreak of sweat. His shirt clung to his skin. It was hot and muggy and unbearable in the flat. 

Sherlock boiled water to make more tea. Strong, black tea. Poured some grenadine syrup into a glass in the meantime (who bought such horrid stuff!), filled it the rest of the way with water, drank half of it (much too sweet!), added more water (better), drank half of it again and refilled it with water (practically nothing but water now, a barely perceptible hint of sweetness in the background and a negligible amount of pink. Perfect!). He ate the glass of pickles he found in the refrigerator and toasted some bread to go with it. More water. And more grenadine syrup. The sweating was decreasing. Good. Sherlock sat on the chair in the kitchen and tried to figure out what had happened to him. Dehydrated. Overstimulated. In love. Not good.

A distant murmur had Sherlock pricking up his ears. Thunder? Sheet lightning caused faint flashes of light in the kitchen. Sherlock got up, went into the living room, and opened the heavy blackout curtains. It was dark outside. He opened the window. Thick, humid summer air that almost took his breath away. The night sky flickered repeatedly in the distance. The muted rumbling went on and on, no beginning or end. A storm. A heavy thunderstorm. Even as Sherlock listened and tried to calculate how far away the front was, the first breeze reached his nose. A trace of rain and moisture, of coolness, relief and an unpredictable inferno. 

Seconds later, he was blinded by a long, bright bolt of lightning that bored its way downward from the clouds, right into the earth – or the Thames. Thunder broke through the lazy night air, scrabbled its way through the elements, tore open the here and now, deafening, merciless, waking all the demons of hell at once, and as if they were looking up with questions in their terrible eyes, a gust of wind blew in, making the curtains billow, a capricious harbinger of the underworld. Then the dams broke with a terrifying roar. A barrage of lightning. Thunder ripped the air apart. Water poured down from the heavens. Sherlock stood at the window, fascinated, watching the furious power of the proceedings with a combination of curiosity and wonder.

The next blast of wind whipped rain through the open living room window. Heavy drops hammered down on Sherlock, driven by the rhythmic beat of long, hard gusts. He closed his eyes and let it happen, leaned into the wet force of nature, felt the pressure of the water and the wind, enjoyed the wild play of lightning and the unnerving chaos of the storm. The rain reached roughly into his face, ran through his hair, pounded against his chest and then, as if suddenly remembering its soft, flowing nature after such a stormy entrance, dripped out of his hair onto his neck, gathering there for a split second before continuing onward, an indeterminable sequence of individual drops on unpredictable tracks, trickling over heated skin into the collar of his shirt, seeking the most direct path across his wet chest down to his crotch. 

Sherlock let it happen, unsettled by the unexpected sensuality of the situation. Let the weather batter his body, force its way into his soul. He thought of John. John. His embrace. The scent of his skin, similar to the dampness of the rain following a long hot spell. Familiar and foreign at the same time, like the storm, fearsome and redemptive both. John. The heat of his passion. Suspected. Hoped. Longed for. Never experienced.

Sherlock stood there, numb. His arousal swelled in the damp confines of his trousers. His body was crying for John. His soul, his heart. But John wasn't there. And even if he had been, it wouldn't have changed anything. The realisation was instantly painful. It was his own impotence that tormented him. He had all the chances in the world, but he was too cowardly.

Sherlock shuddered at the next gust. He stepped back from the window, took off his wet clothes, dropping them carelessly on the floor, went to the couch and lay down. The storm raged on outside. Cool air streamed into the room through the open window. Sherlock relieved his afflicted body with his own hand, a tried and true method of ridding himself of the tiresome, hormonally produced tension. But this time it didn't work the way he expected. His body was satiated, but that wasn't enough. His heart was still sore. His soul was still lonely. Sherlock had never been more aware of the fact before: his life was hollow without John.

Sherlock wrapped himself in the blanket that was draped over the couch and curled up in it. His phone. He groped for it. Six text messages from John, from throughout the day. John describing the excursion to the lake, sending pictures of himself and Harry and the countryside. Asking for a response, wondering why Sherlock wasn't answering. Sherlock wrote back that he was hard at work, and would report in tomorrow. And thanked him for the pictures.

_What are you working so hard on? JW_

_A piece of music. Four parts. SH_

_Sonata? JW_

_Intermezzo. It's 1 a.m. You should be asleep, John. SH_

_I can't sleep when I haven't heard from you. JW_

_Sorry... SH_


	6. Variation 4

There was only one person in all of London who could do it. And he lived on the other side of the city. Sherlock rang for a taxi. And while the woman who showed up like clockwork every two weeks – John had found her and made all the arrangements – took care of the puddle of rain and sodden carpet in the living room, washed the blanket from the couch and cleaned the flat, Sherlock set out with the parts of the clock in a shopping bag.

The clockmaker's studio wasn't hard to find. Unlike all the other shops in the area, it didn't display any goods for sale in the window. Instead, the shop window was completely filled with the huge face of an old church clock. The massive hands stood at five minutes to twelve. That was all. No way of peeking inside the shop. The door was made of solid wood. Heavy. The interior was tiny. A table with a couple of chairs. A lamp. A collection of clocks from various eras and regions hanging on the wall. 

A young woman approached Sherlock. Modestly dressed, her hair twisted into a bun at the nape of her neck.

"What can I do for you?" she asked. She had a soft, pleasant voice.

Sherlock explained that he was there regarding the repair of a wall clock with a pendulum from 1922. It had fallen down. 

The young woman nodded. "If you would come with me, please?"

Sherlock followed her. A short hallway. Lift to the eighth floor. A long hallway this time, stairs. The studio was a surprise. A glass-domed ceiling, the octagonal room flooded with daylight and filled with a dense acoustic carpet of ticking clocks in every possible pitch, every possible frequency, an eerily present, all-encompassing backdrop of imperturbable time measurement. There were clocks hanging, standing, lying everywhere. 

In the midst of the timely chaos, a man sat calmly. He was bent close over a table, white smock, thinning grey hair, a watchmaker's eyepiece in his eye. He was working meticulously in the white sphere of light from a tiny work lamp. He exuded an aura of equanimity and serenity. Astonished, Sherlock breathed in the atmosphere of timeless distinction and care. The entire room was filled with tranquility, light and cleanliness. Sherlock wouldn't have been surprised if the man didn't have a speck of dust on him. The old man looked up, removed the eyepiece. Pale, watchful eyes assessed Sherlock.

"I've heard you're the only one who can repair clocks like this," Sherlock said, placing the bag in front of the man on the work surface.

"Please," the man said, indicating with a broad gesture that Sherlock should unpack the clock.

Sherlock took the broken wooden casing out of the bag and set it down on the table. The pendulum. Clock face. Clockwork mechanism. Spring. Key. The shards of the crystal glass cover. Gears. A few random parts. The clockmaker observed everything, paying close attention to every detail. Not just the parts of the clock. He observed every one of the clumsy gestures with which Sherlock removed the pieces from the bag and laid them carelessly on the table, not concerning himself with placing them in any particular order. He observed the faint tremor in Sherlock's hand, in his breath, his posture. He observed Sherlock. 

Sherlock felt it keenly. Very keenly. He was being scanned, right down to the marrow in his bones. Maybe even deeper, maybe down to the bottom of his soul. Oddly, it didn't disturb him. He did feel a little uncertain, but there was also a strange sense of trust, that it was all right. It was as if fate were reaching out to him with glowing, x-ray fingers, mild and understanding, as if he didn't have any choice other than to expose everything, to disclose it, without holding anything back. As if this were the only way, the best way. As if everything were all right as it was.

"What happened to it?" the man asked as he examined the pieces.

"It broke," Sherlock said, meeting the pale eyes. He knew right then that everything was understood between them. That there were no secrets. And that everything was fine as it was.

"An heirloom?" the clockmaker asked, organising the pieces on the table.

"Yes."

A long silence. The clockmaker checked the mechanism, looked at it through the magnifier. Each of his movements was slow and graceful, gentle and harmonic, like the familiar motions of a tea ceremony, the okuden of a thousand-year-old kata. Then he sorted through the individual gears, pins, and springs on the table with the same equanimity.

"Relationship trouble?" the clockmaker asked without looking up.

"Something like that," Sherlock answered. He was surprised by the question, and even more surprised by the fact that he had responded to it.

The clockmaker carefully took the casing in his hands, pushed and pulled on the splintered wood. Examined what was left of the shattered glass.

"The casing will need to be replaced," he said. "I can offer you a similar one, but it will no longer be the same clock."

"That's fine," Sherlock said.

"It will change everything," said the clockmaker, his transparent gaze searching Sherlock's. "The clock will look different, tell time differently, and sound off the hours differently. Only the ticking will remain the same. I can fix the mechanism. Except for the spring. I'll need to replace that."

"Fine."

"You're in love, and unhappy about it."

"Something like that."

"You're afraid your love is not returned."

"What makes you think that?" Sherlock asked.

Just then, one of the clocks started to chime the hour, a bright, high-pitched sound. It was promptly followed by all of the other clocks in the room. An unbelievable pandemonium ensued. Light, fast, frantic, deep, low, calming, harmonic, dominant, gentle, urgent chimes. And last but not least, the soft, velvety chime of a simple grandfather clock. The clockmaker looked over at it and smiled.

"It's running a little slow again," he said and stood up with a sigh, slowly, clearly in pain, dragged himself over to the clock, his back hunched, and carefully twisted the screw regulating its pendulum. Then he limped back to the table and sat down again with a grunt.

"I'll need four to six weeks," he told Sherlock. "And it's not going to be cheap. Do you need an estimate?"

"No. Just fix it. I'll pay it, no matter what it costs."

"Good. Then I'll just need your signature." The clockmaker pulled a form out of a tray and started writing. "Talk to her," he said casually as he itemised the list of things that would need to be done. "You only stand to gain. If the answer is positive, you will be happy. If it is negative, at least you know where you stand."

"With him," Sherlock said. "My friend is a man."

A brief glance from the perceptive eyes. "Even more so, in that case," the clockmaker said as he continued to write. "Don't put your friendship on the line. It's a valuable commodity. Believe me: I know what I'm talking about. Where shall I send the bill?"

"Sherlock Holmes, 221B Baker Street."

"We'll let you know as soon as the clock is ready, Mr Holmes. If you wouldn't mind signing the confirmation of the order?"

The clockmaker slid the form over to Sherlock. Sherlock skimmed it before writing his name at the bottom. As he passed the paper back to the clockmaker, he looked into his eyes. Old, deepset eyes, quick and alert, the blue somewhat faded but still clear.

"How did you know that about me?" Sherlock asked.

A smile in the eyes. Affectionate, gentle.

"I see it, that's all," the old man said kindly. "In the condition of the clock. In you, your reactions, your energy. It's called clairsentience." He smiled. "I apologise if I got too personal."

Sherlock probed the placid eyes, saw it was the truth. "You did get too personal," he said. "Thank you."

 

***

 

Once back home, Sherlock started pacing around the living room. Restless. Impatient. Back and forth. Back and forth. He didn't know what else to do. He couldn't stop thinking about the meeting with the clockmaker. He missed the ticking of the clock on the wall. He missed John. 

The rain-cleansed air streaming into the flat through the open window made him nervous. It smelt of the world outside, like countryside, weather and adventure. Like new, unknown things; like surprises. It smelt like John when he came back from the shops or from work, burst cheerfully into the flat bringing with him a wave of foreign freshness in his hair, in his clothes, on his skin. John. Two more days.

Sherlock reached for his violin. It lay open on the table and was out of tune from the change in the weather, the drop in temperature, the humidity. It sounded more mellow when it was damp, but also smooth and lively from the cooler temperatures. John coming in from outside. Sherlock transposed the theme to A major and let the fresh wind blow through the sixth-interval jump, swirl through the ascending motif in lively eddies, and sweep brashly past the climax of the motif, merry and carefree, unlimited by any rules. Then he made the notes tumble down through the octaves with daredevil somersaults so they could catch their breath at the tonic before the entire journey started over again with a daring key change to B flat major.

Sherlock grinned and even ended up laughing at what he'd done, a little puzzled at why he'd come up with such cheerful music all of a sudden. Maybe because John was coming home soon. Or maybe simply because he was in love and because he was slowly starting not only to understand and accept it, but also had decided he was going to tell John.

Sherlock wrote down the variation. As he wrote, he came up with even crazier ideas, foolhardy musical about-faces and wild melodic sequences. He wrote everything down in scrawled notations, lively curved sixteenth-note ligatures, light-hearted leaps and capriccios. Unmitigated joy. Sherlock played through what he'd written a couple of times, corrected and optimised this and that. 

Then he had something to eat, poured himself a glass of wine and stretched out on the couch. It smelt like freshly laundered linens, and he realised that he hadn't spent a single hour in his bed since John had left.

_I'm in love, John. SH_

Sherlock typed out the text message, wondering for a moment whether he should really send it. Then he pushed the 'send' button. The little status bar filled up with green quickly without a hitch. Message sent. Sherlock felt his heart beating all the way up in his throat. He waited to see what John would reply. But no answer came. Not in the next few minutes. And not in the next hour, either. At some point, Sherlock fell asleep on the couch, filled with doubt, filled with hope, filled with trust, filled with fear, filled with love.


	7. Variation 5

When Sherlock woke up, he needed a moment to orientate himself. He was lying on the couch, it was dark, and the phone in his hand was chiming and vibrating. John. Nearly midnight. A call. Sherlock hesitated when he remembered that he'd sent John a text confessing his love. Talk to John now? What should he say? How would John react? Damn it! He was in over his head with this one. He waited so long that the call was redirected to voice mail. Too late. 

Sherlock, still woozy with sleep, didn't know what to do. The signal for an incoming text message. A notification telling him he had a voice mail. Sherlock pushed number 2 on speed dial, his fingers shaking, and listened to the message. John's voice. Familiar. Soft. Worried. 

_Sherlock. I got your text._ Pause. Breath. _I'd like to talk to you, Sherlock. Please call me back as soon as you can._ Slight tremor in his voice. Hesitation. Breathing. _Click._

Sherlock listened to the message again. And then one more time. Then he got up, went into the bathroom, washed his face with cold water, cleaned his teeth, rinsed out his mouth, drank a couple of mouthfuls of water from the tap. He ran his wet hands through his hair, looked in the mirror, tried to clear his head. Tried to figure out what had happened, what needed to happen. Tried to calm his palpitating heart. 

He was Sherlock Holmes. Above-average intelligence. In demand as a highly paid consulting detective. He'd taken lots of risks, survived countless dangers. He could rely on himself. He was a grown man. And he was going to do the right thing now. Even if it was unlike anything he'd ever done before. It needed to be done. Full stop.

Sherlock went back into the living room, lay down on the couch and picked up his phone. His heart was beating out a frantic, panicked tattoo in his head. He took a deep, rasping breath. He felt dizzy. His hand shook as he pressed 1, the speed dial number for John.

"Sherlock?"

"John." Sherlock voice came out scratchy, barely audible. He cleared his throat. "Sorry, I was asleep." And after a couple of seconds in which no response was forthcoming from John: "You wanted to talk to me. About the text."

"Yeah," John said in a low voice. Shaky breath in Sherlock's ear. Sherlock closed his eyes, felt his hand trembling, tried to hold the phone still. John's unease was palpable. The fierce battle he was fighting.

"You... you're in love?" John's voice wavered.

"Yes." Sherlock summoned up all of his strength. "Yes, I'm in love, John," he said. John's pained breaths were so close it knocked the air out of his lungs. His pulse was pounding hard throughout his body, too loud to his own ears.

"Who is it?" John's voice sounded thick. Worried. Scared.

Sherlock fell silent, confused. He didn't know what to say. He hadn't expected the question. Didn't know what to do with it. He'd manoeuvred himself into a situation he wasn't able to handle. John had misunderstood his message.

"Sherlock?"

"Yes, I'm still here, John."

"Are you happy?" Fear and distraught concern in John's voice.

"Yes, I'm happy, John, don't worry."

"Do I know this person?"

Sherlock struggled to formulate a thought, a word, a decision, a plan, anything. But there was nothing inside him but chaos.

"Sherlock?"

Sherlock mustered all of his concentration. He put his free hand in his hair, got a good grip and yanked. The pain helped. He took a deep breath. Kept his eyes firmly closed and imagined a street, a well-lit, straight street he could walk along, straight on, safe, without staggering, without stumbling, just walk... Now!

"I'm in love with you, John," he said. It came out clear and firm, but the sentence cost him everything he had. His pulse was racing. His hand was shaking like a leaf. His entire body was shaking like a leaf. He heard John take a gasping breath. Confusion. Fear. A wave of panic. John's heavy breathing in his ear. Struggling for composure. No response. Just breathing. A dry swallow. Breathing. Heart racing. Swooning. Sherlock tried to get through it. Just get through it. A painful tug on his hair. Take a breath. Keep walking down the street. Just walk. Keep going.

"John?"

"Sherlock... Give me a mo'..."

"Shall I call back later?"

"No. No. I... it's fine. I was so afraid it might be someone else."

Long silence. Sherlock tried to order his thoughts, to parse the meaning of what John had said. The sense of relief was cooler than he'd expected. The hard casing of a large fruit opening like heavy petals, revealing the core, that long-desired object. It looked different than he'd expected. It wasn't clear whether it was edible, whether it tasted sweet or bitter, whether it was poisonous or nourishing. Sherlock reached out for it, felt warmth and moisture, let himself be guided by what the contact set off in him, what lay open to him now, what was obvious, the truth. Heat flowed into his body, into his voice.

"I want to touch you, John." Sherlock let himself be immersed in the heat. A calmness spread through him. The truth. John's breathing. Heavy, but regular now. Possibly thinking. Sherlock waited a few more seconds. Then he said lightly, "I know it may be different for you, that it may not be right for you. If that's the case, then please, John, be honest with me. I don't know how to handle it otherwise."

"I want to be with you, Sherlock. To have you touch me," John said, quiet and calm.

The moment of surprise passed quickly, and then Sherlock was inundated with tenderness, hot and unfamiliar. It suffused him, filled him up, stole his breath away. John had touched that core from the other side. They both fell silent, stunned and weary from the intimacy of the conversation. Moved by the result. Pounding hearts. Relief. Sherlock listened to John breathing. He was so close that the air seemed to brush Sherlock's ear. John's heart was beating to him through the silence. Fictional fingers stroked his hand, beseeching.

"We'll see each other tomorrow, John," Sherlock said eventually. "How are we going to handle this?"

"I'm afraid I'm going to throw myself at you and never let go," John said, chuckling softly.

Sherlock smiled. "Good. I'll meet you at the station."

 

***

 

Half an hour later, when they'd finally forced themselves to end the call, sleep was the furthest thing from Sherlock's mind. He lay on the couch, staring at the ceiling, his eyes wide open. It felt as if he were in a trance and couldn't be sure of his own thoughts. Something huge had just happened. He and John had cracked open their friendship. What came next was the adventure of a lifetime. It was going to hurt, Sherlock knew that. But he was prepared to risk it. He was prepared to go through all the insecurity and pain, even if it frightened him.

Sherlock tuned his violin, lost in thought. He closed the window and drew the blackout curtains. He didn't turn the light on, didn't need it. His heart was heavy. Heavy and full. He tried to explore that fullness. He sat on the back of the armchair, his eyes closed, let his arms hang down at his sides holding the violin and bow. The tip of the bow made contact with the floor, rested its weight on the carpet. Sherlock felt the slight counterpressure and deliberately relaxed the muscles of his bow hand. He was more tense than he'd thought. 

It was going to change everything. Everything was going to look different, behave differently, and sound different. Only the ticking would remain constant. The ticking. _Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock._ That serenity in counting out the seconds, dividing the astronomical day into 86,400 equal parts, making them measurable. But that wasn't it. It also wasn't the caesium-33 atom that defined the atomic second. It was the sixty beats per minute. The pulse of the human body. The measure of deep relaxation, rest and composure. _Andante._ A casual walking pace. Saving energy. Able to keep going for a long time. 

Sherlock took a deep breath and let it out again, let all the air flow out, everything, became aware of the tension in his shoulders, in his neck, tried to release it, concentrating on it with his next few breaths. He pulled air into his body, deep, wide, in all directions at once, let go of everything, released everything, let everything flow away, let everything loose. John. The name resounded in him. A vibration deep down, spreading at the tranquil pace of the second hand in his body, filling it. Like the wind reaching playfully into the crown of an old alder tree over in Regent's Park, making the leaves dance, a rustling that moved through the park, passing from tree to tree. The water rippling in the wind. A regular pattern moving across the pond, dark and secretive, complex and illegible in its timeless beauty.

Sherlock felt fear in there too. His fear. His fear of the storm that toppled mighty fir trees and took life blindly. His fear of losing control, of being exposed. Of exposing himself. His fear of loving and allowing himself to be loved. Of trusting. Wholly. Deep in the fundamental functions of his body. Deep in the intricate pattern of his soul. Was this what John elicited in him before they'd even touched? Before there was any kind of reality outside of oral daydreams? Was it this existential gravity, such as he'd never known before? What was happening to him? Who was he? Who was Sherlock Holmes?

Who was Sherlock Holmes? Sherlock sighed as he settled the violin under his chin, raised his bow hand, and touched the bow to the strings. There was nothing else he could have done. He was shaken and confused by his own thoughts and emotions. Why was there such a fine line between playing games and meaning something in earnest? They were so close! An inseparable set of twins. A glass bead game. Why all of this now? What layers was John tearing open, was his love tearing open? Was any of this going to be manageable from day to day?

D minor. Yes, that was good. D minor. It was close to everything that went on in a daily routine, in plain old C major. It was close in pitch yet so distant in meaning, creeping up slowly in references and connections. The theme. Clear and astonishing. No, it wasn't a simple theme even if it seemed simplistic at first. The initial movement, the jump up a sixth from C to A, was the centrepiece. An astonishing null statement that went beyond any context, the initiatory point for the daring about-faces and combinations in every direction.

Sherlock lingered on the C for a long time. Then plumbed the depths of the A, the entryway to new worlds. Dreamy. Open. Directionless. Sherlock fiddled aimlessly around the A for a bit before resuming the theme that was fixed in his head and hands. The old theme. The original theme. Sherlock played it the way it sounded inside his ear. But it wasn't the same theme from the beginning. It was the same melody. But it was on a different level. Sherlock couldn't control it. He let his hands play. He listened to himself in the darkness of the room, his eyes closed. It was the theme; but his fingers re-interpreted it, the differences minimal – a couple of notes here and there, a triplet breaking out, a ritardando, a pause, a sudden withdrawal to a pianissimo with a narrative intensity, secrets hidden in the background. And the clear statement of the concluding descent to the tonic. 

Was it good? No. No! It troubled Sherlock, this conclusive clarity. He smashed it with a fierce four-string chord, shredded the tonic, let the chord grow into dire suspense, built up dissonances, let them grind against each other, clear and sharp, seized the pain, looked it in the eye, withstood it, looked inside it, savoured it until it became familiar, lost its horror, revealed its purity, and finally let it go, gently, unhurried, one note at a time, until it melded into an unbearably sweet harmony that he immediately continued, concentrating on a single, pure, precise note that he neither delayed nor drew out but simply played and completed. 

Done. That was it. It would have to suffice. John was coming tomorrow.


	8. Return

It was completely irrational. Now, seen in the light of day, it was all completely irrational. He'd confessed his love to John in the darkness of a summer's night, and John had returned it. He'd suspected – hoped – that John shared his feelings too, but he hadn't expected it to come out in such a clear-cut way. He'd counted on being rebuffed, at least a little. On having to deal with the fact that he was the one who loved more. That he could play with the drama of being in love, experiencing those feelings, without any risk. That John would play along, respectful yet feeling guilty, walking on eggshells, knowing he was causing Sherlock pain. A power game. An adolescent power game that would look as if he, Sherlock, were the victim – when in reality it was John.

Sherlock dried his cup, frowning, bewildered at the train of thought such simple household tasks elicited in him. He couldn't separate his thoughts from John, from what was coming. It was all theoretical, of course. It was time for John to come back. High time for those things to become concrete that had remained untested until now. Especially in his life. He didn't have any experience with relationships, knew very little about love. And what little experience he did have, had been unhappy. He'd always avoided it whenever possible. This time it was different, and that was good. He was looking forward to John. That was all. John was there. He knew him. It was easy. He was his friend. He loved him.

Almost everything was done that Sherlock had planned to do that day before John returned. The shopping. Tidying a little in the living room and kitchen. The cleaning woman had done everything else.

First thing that morning, he'd made a fair copy of the music for John, had started at dawn and worked on it all morning, all the way into the early afternoon. He'd arranged to have staff paper bound and sewn into the calfskin display binder at the stationer's two days earlier. He'd slowly and carefully transferred the notes from his working copy, by hand, at the desk under the reading lamp, always bearing in mind that he couldn't make a mistake, that this wasn't printer's waste but valuable, bound paper, that what he wrote needed to be legible and clean in its final form. He'd started a fresh double page for each variation so that the pieces could be played without turning a page. He'd used a black fine line marker, creating a template first in order to stabilise his handwriting on the staff paper (the lines were a little further apart than those on his usual staff paper) before beginning with the fair copy. He couldn't recall ever having gone to so much trouble for a present before. He couldn't recall ever having worked on a piece of music with such joy before. And he'd never been as proud of the result.

On the first page, when you opened the book, it simply said 'for John'. He'd arranged the words in the golden proportion. Underneath that, in the margin, the date. On the next double page, on the right, it said 'Theme with 5 Variations and Intermezzo'. And beneath that his name and the year. The next double page contained the theme. It had fit on one page, and he'd placed it recto. He'd also written the untouched theme again after Variation 5, as an ending. As it was in the beginning, so it shall be in the end. As above, so below. Alpha and Omega. Full circle. There were several empty pages left after that, but that didn't matter. Sherlock had thought about wrapping the present up, but decided against it in the end, and left the book in his desk. He didn't know when he would give it to John. It all depended on how things developed, and he was in no condition to make any sort of estimation about that.

A text message from John. Two hours until he arrived at Victoria Station. The train was on time.

Mrs Hudson brought an apple pie. As a welcome back present. 

"You need to have something in the house when John gets here. He'll be hungry and thirsty from the trip. Don't forget to make tea, Sherlock."

"I'll remember, Mrs Hudson."

"When is he coming?"

"Five past five."

"By taxi?"

"I'm meeting him at the station."

"Oh, Sherlock! He'll be pleased about that."

"Of course."

"I can come along if you'd like."

"Thank you, Mrs Hudson. Very kind of you, but not necessary."

"I'd be glad to come along."

"No, Mrs Hudson."

A probing look. A smile. Understanding.

_No, you don't understand_ , Sherlock thought to himself. Although he wasn't entirely sure. Mrs Hudson's look, the smile, the brief flash in her eyes, seemed ambiguous. You never knew with the old lady.

 

***

 

It was a madhouse at Victoria Station. Rush hour, commuters, tourists, rivers of people. Sherlock had taken the Tube after all, transferring at Green Park. He was glad of it now, even if it had been difficult for him at first, squeezing in with all the tired, sweaty people at the end of a hot summer workday, on their way home to their families, their children. People who might be returning to the tiny flat they left that morning where no one was waiting for them. Maybe a house pet they fed and petted. Maybe a partner who hugged them at night. He, Sherlock, wasn't alone. He'd realised that as he stood in the midst of all the work-weary people. He had John. They had a flat together. They had a life together. They had a home. Even now.

Sherlock waited at the exit by the ticket gates on the arrival platform. He stood back, leaving some space between the exit and himself, positioned himself by the back wall of a sandwich stand. He wanted some time when John came through the gate and saw him, when they saw each other. A few steps at least, a couple of seconds to collect himself. 

The train was on time. Sherlock's heart was pounding. His eyes were glued to the gate where the people spilled through. The tension hurt his shoulders, his neck, his head. Damn it! Sherlock forced himself to relax. He closed his eyes, leaned against the wall behind him, took a deep breath, pressed his shoulders down, felt the stiff muscles yielding as his body loosened up. Better.

When he opened his eyes, he saw John walking toward him, a smile on his face, trolley case in tow, a day pack, jeans and a t-shirt, hair fair and bleached from the sun, face and arms tanned. He stopped in front of Sherlock, rested his suitcase beside him, no rush, took off his backpack and set it down too. Then he looked up. He was smiling, his grey eyes flashing with irrepressible joy. He inhaled, about to say something, but fell silent under Sherlock's gaze before the words could form on his lips.

Sherlock searched John's familiar eyes, saw the bubbly smile. The hesitation that followed after a few moments. The sudden earnestness. He saw the grey become warm and open up, the pupils dilate, dilating for him. He let himself sink freely into the unexpected depths, surprised to feel the expanse of his own open, unprotected space inside. His breath caught in his throat and he fell, astonished, eternal, unable to take his eyes off John's, to notice anything other than their breathtaking proximity. 

Something touched him deep inside, a finger of light, sudden and unexpected, flooded him with heat and ignited a hopeless tumult. He closed his eyes, trembling. John! His hand felt for his friend, seeking something to hold on to, grasped John's t-shirt. He flung his arms around John as he was pulled into the embrace, buried his face helplessly in John's neck, his hand in John's hair. John's smell was familiar, the sound of him breathing, the strength of the muscular arms with which he held Sherlock, the tension in the hand he rubbed down Sherlock's back.

"Sherlock." A breathless whisper in Sherlock's ear, a draft of air, a tickle, John's nose, John's lips on his ear, his cheek, his temple, John's forehead against his. And the brief moment of desperate longing, their lips mere millimetres apart, hot breath tangible, tastable. Sherlock's lips brushed John's, inquisitive. John gasped for air. But then he put light pressure on Sherlock's shoulders with his hands, pushed him gently away, an unambiguous signal.

"Do you love each other?" a high, squeaky voice asked.

John froze, staring at Sherlock. A ghost of a smile. Then John pulled away from him. 

A little girl stood beside them, maybe three or four years old, light summer dress, a doll in her hand, looking up curiously at the two men.

John smiled. He bent over to the girl without taking his hand off Sherlock's arm, not breaking their contact.

"Yes," he said. "We love each other very much. And who are you?"

"Amy," said the girl.

"I'm so sorry." The young mother took Amy by the arm and pulled her away from the two men, closer to herself. "She's never seen men... hugging. Please excuse her. She can be a little cheeky."

"It's no problem," John said, smiling at the woman with his irresistible charm. She looked nonplussed.

"Mummy, the men love each other a lot," the girl said earnestly.

"I know, darling," her mother said with a sigh. "But you shouldn't just speak to strangers, Amy. They might not want to talk to you, you know." 

Amy nodded solemnly.

"She asks the right questions," Sherlock said lightly. "You shouldn't restrict her. The more she asks, the more accessible the world will be for her. She's doing it right."

All three looked at him. Amy. Her mother. John. He stood there: Sherlock. Suit and button-down despite the heat. Tousled hair. Thin. Pale. Serious. Ripped open. Sore. Desperately in love. Quite the opposite of the charming, friendly, athletic man who had embraced him. 

Sherlock caught the young mother's eye. She swallowed. Knew as soon as she met Sherlock's gaze that the odd man was something special. Understood at the same time the other man who loved him. Understood the fascination. And understood that what he said about Amy was true.

"All right," she said quietly, without looking away from Sherlock's ice-blue eyes. "I'll take that into consideration. Maybe we all live in a world that's much too narrow, I suppose. You're right. Thank you." Her eyes filled with tears. Sherlock had no idea why. But he took note of it, and it touched him. 

He nodded to her and smiled indulgently. Then he turned to Amy, who had followed the scene with big, curious eyes. He didn't say anything more to her. They just watched each other, silent and wondering: Sherlock and Amy.


	9. Arrival

Sherlock absentmindedly made tea while John dragged his suitcase up to his room and unpacked. Mrs Hudson's apple pie still sat on the kitchen table. Sherlock took two cups out of the cupboard. He felt dizzy. The taxi ride. The long, silent taxi ride through London's heavy rush hour traffic. John beside him on the back seat. Close. Shoulder to shoulder, leaning against each other. The smell of his skin that he'd missed so much. John's hand groping for his. The strong, warm fingers knitting themselves between his. John's eyes on him.

"All right for you, Sherlock?"

Sherlock had responded with the pressure of his hand. Such unprecedented intimacy. The flow of heat and energy, his pulse palpable, the slightest movement by either of them tangible, a channel of sensual communication, wide open. They'd both let it happen. He'd stretched out his fingers after a while, his heart racing, nestled the palm of his hand against John's, touched the tips of John's fingers with his own, felt the excitement immediately jumping from one to the other. He'd seen it in John's eyes and known John could see it in his. An unbelievable feeling of happiness.

He hadn't been able to take his eyes off John's for a long time. There was something there that was both compelling and fascinating, that connected them. Down deep, dusty mother-of-pearl – intangible, familiar, a distant memory he yearned for without being able to penetrate. He'd seen that glimmer before, at times, for a fraction of a second, a flash, unexpected. In moments of relief in the aftermath of danger, after a fight, a life-threatening situation. In intimate moments, sharing a meal, a conversation, in the lab, when they'd been working on a case together and were hot on the trail of a solution. Sherlock had never questioned the feeling that moments like those triggered in him. He'd simply set it aside and gone on with business as usual. Desire. How old was this connection already? And he'd only just discovered it.

Sherlock removed the boiling water from the burner to let it cool off a bit before he poured it over the tea leaves.

John was beaming. His grey eyes looked bright and clear in his tanned face. He'd showered and put on a light summer shirt, smelt fresh, of soap and dampness. He came over to where Sherlock stood by the cooker.

"You're making tea?"

He hesitated a moment before placing one hand on Sherlock's shoulder and squeezing gently.

"On orders from Mrs Hudson," Sherlock said and closed his eyes. 

John so close. The hand on his shoulder burned. It might have been meant as a friendly gesture, but it was anything but. It was a query. A hot, trembling query. Sherlock touched John's hand with his fingers. A current ran through his body. John took a deep breath.

"Sherlock?"

"The apple pie is also from Mrs Hudson."

"Come here," John said quietly. His hand ran down Sherlock's back, light pressure, a careful prompt. Sherlock turned around, leaned back against the cooker, his fingers trembling against John's cheek, his temple.

"The tea," he said distractedly.

John smiled. He stepped up to the cooker, reached for the kettle with one hand as he curled his other arm around Sherlock, tugged him close and pushed him gently against the cooker with his body, pouring the hot water into the teapot. Sherlock wrapped both arms around him and burrowed into his embrace.

"Tea's made," John whispered, pulling his friend in tighter.

They stood like that for a long time. Just stood there, wrapped around each other, enjoying the intimacy, the heat, the strong beat of their hearts. Sherlock pressed his face against John's neck, bewitched and beguiled by the smell he'd gone without for so long. He hadn't realised how important it was for him, how much he'd wanted it. John's smell. He couldn't get enough of it, inhaled it with all of his senses. John's presence. The arms holding him firmly, strong and safe. The feeling of being snug and secure. Of being loved. Did he need any more than this? Wasn't this what he'd wanted so desperately? To conquer that awful loneliness, that emptiness, that terrible cold deep inside him. That feeling of being alone, of being exposed and helpless, lost in a deadly wilderness whose signposts he didn't understand. Deserted in his own unbearable inadequacy. Rejected. Abandoned. By everyone. Lonesomeness. And beneath that, this sadness.

John moved in his arms, nestled in closer to him so that his hard genitals pushed into Sherlock's. A swell of heat chased through Sherlock's body, finding an immediate echo in John, who moaned softly, pressing up against Sherlock in a short, uncontrolled surge of lust, just for a moment, only to calm again when Sherlock didn't respond, instead surrendering to the embrace, adjusted himself, making them both comfortable. For him: for Sherlock. 

Sherlock felt the quivering in John's body and realised there were no more barriers, they could love each other without constraints, in a physical sense as well, here in their shared flat, secure, unobserved, a private matter between the two of them, their own responsibility, no explanations owed to anyone. Free. No barriers. Responsibility. Panic overcame him.

John pulled away from him, slowly, delicately, as if he had felt what was going on inside Sherlock. Maybe he had. Sherlock held on to him, frantic, held his arms, his shoulders, wrapped his arms around John's neck, folded his hands at John's nape, held fast, didn't let him go, didn't let the distance between them grow beyond that at which he could still feel the heat, John's body heat, still breathe in his scent.

"Stay. Please."

John's eyes on him. Lingering. Serious. Tender. Gentle. Full of love. John stayed. That was all: he stayed. Stayed with him. Close. Didn't say anything. He stayed and remained silent. Sherlock loved him for that. More than he could comprehend.

"You want... more?" Sherlock asked shyly.

"There's time," John said calmly, not taking his eyes off Sherlock, not turning away. He lifted his hand, touched Sherlock's face affectionately, stroked his fingertips across Sherlock's temple, his cheek, touched his lips. A tender caress.

"I'd like to sleep with you," he said quietly, barely audible. "Next to you. And with you, eventually. If you want. But for tonight, just next to you."

Sherlock looked into the warm grey eyes, felt his own eyes sting, knew they were wide open and damp, his pupils much too wide, caught up in the heat, the intimacy. John. He couldn't imagine ever letting John go. He couldn't imagine going to sleep tonight without John. Going to sleep any night without John. There was no need for his feeble nod. Not even a tiny bit.

"Tea?" John said.

Sherlock nodded, slowly relaxed his hands from their position behind John's neck. John lowered his eyes, turned to the teapot, set it on the table, got out dishes and spoons from the cupboard, cut Mrs Hudson's apple pie into pieces with a knife. John ate heartily while Sherlock drank his tea, reflective, leaving his pie untouched. John told about his holiday, about the excursions, the weather, the lake, the wind. About people he'd met, anecdotes and episodes. Sherlock listened silently.


	10. Journal

Marutamaya Ogatsu? No need to think twice. Sherlock HAD to go. 

Mrs Hudson smiled in satisfaction. "I thought you'd be interested."

The grand master of Japanese pyrotechnics. Famous for breathtaking compositions, perfection and harmony. In Hyde Park at the Serpentine. Midnight. Sherlock loved fireworks more than anything. And it was rare to be able to witness a performance this masterful. Truly rare. He looked over at John.

"I know you're probably tired from the trip, John. But you have to see this. It's imperative!" Sherlock said excitedly.

John shrugged. "Why not. I don't have anything else planned for tonight."

"Shall we all take a taxi together?" Mrs Hudson asked.

Sherlock hesitated. Glanced at John, who gave a barely visible nod.

"Eleven p.m.," said Sherlock.

Mrs Hudson beamed.

"I'll order it now," she squealed and left the room. 

The creaking of the stairs under her feet. John dropped back down into the armchair. He'd interrupted looking through the mail that had gathered in his absence to greet Mrs Hudson. John plucked one envelope after another from the pile, turned them over, looked at them, stuck the tip of the letter opener in the fold and slit the paper open with a single sharp tug. _Rrrrip._ Not sawing it slowly the way he did when he was relaxed. 

Sherlock was watching him from the couch, his laptop on his knees. John didn't read any of the letters. He did take some out of their envelope, unfolded them, skimmed them quickly, but then folded them up again and stuffed them back in. Next. He also didn't sort out the bills the way he usually did.

"John?"

Ruminative grey eyes. 

"I'm sorry, John," Sherlock said. "I didn't want to pull away from you or ..."

"No," John cut him off. "No, it's fine, Sherlock. It's all right." A searching look between them.

"Maybe it's a mistake for us to go to the fireworks with Mrs Hudson."

"No, Sherlock. It's good. We'll have enough time for the two of us. It won't be a problem. Truly."

"What is it then?"

John paused what he was doing and looked at Sherlock. A probing look, then brief uncertainty before he said, "I'm struggling with a decision."

"About what?"

John didn't answer.

"Can I help you with it somehow?" Sherlock asked considerately.

"No."

The clear, curt negative bothered Sherlock. It shut him out, and it hurt. He hadn't expected it, not tonight, when he'd been so free with his attentions and affection. He hadn't expected a no like that, nor that it would have such an effect on him, that it would trigger so much pain and sadness. 

He looked down at his laptop screen. The search machine had found the technical text on Japanese hanabi. Sherlock stared at it without really seeing it. The silence in the room. It spread unimpeded. A thick weight that made it hard to breathe. The ticking of the clock was missing. Measuring time.

Sherlock's gaze met his friend's. Lingered there. Space expanded to infinity, galaxies raced away from each other, creating emptiness, dimensions collapsed, boundaries dissolved in the bottomless grey of mother-of-pearl. John swallowed.

"Stay where you are, Sherlock," he requested quietly. "I'll be right back." He stood up and walked out. Left the living room, went out into the hall, climbed the stairs to his room.

Sherlock set his laptop aside. He leaned back on the couch and closed his eyes. Outside him everything was still. Inside everything in an uproar. John's footsteps, coming down the stairs. Slow, weighty. Maybe hesitant. Footfalls through the living room to the couch. John sat down beside him. He sat sideways to the cushions, leaned his entire weight against the back of the couch, drew both legs up, turned toward Sherlock, his body's centre of gravity precisely over the extension of his spine. Relaxation position. Deep breath. Sherlock turned his head to John, opened his eyes. John exuded warmth. He was calm. A notebook in his hands. Bound, the way he liked. Worn from use. John held it in both hands.

"It's a journal," John said quietly. He closed his eyes for a moment, took a deep breath before speaking the next sentence. "It's a journal of my feelings for you. I'd like you to read it and then give it back. Since it's so personal, I'd like to hear a definite yes from you. Or a definite no."

Sherlock looked into John's eyes in consternation, taken by surprise at the unexpected offer. His heart was thudding in his chest. The request scared him. The trust and intimacy that went along with it, the responsibility towards John. The responsibility towards what had begun between them, and was cautiously, timidly trying to find its place in their everyday life. Perhaps it was love. John sat there calmly, the picture of stoicism and resolve. His courage and his fearlessness both impressed and touched Sherlock.

"How old is it?" he asked tentatively.

"It's current. The last entry is from last night."

"And the first?"

John hesitated a moment. Then he answered straight out: "February of last year."

Sherlock was shocked. "We met in January of last year."

John didn't respond to that. It took Sherlock several seconds to collect himself. John waited, the book still motionless in his hands.

"Why," Sherlock asked tremulously, "why didn't you ever say anything?"

John smiled. "I was waiting for you."

"Like you're waiting for me now."

"A couple more days won't matter."

Sherlock looked down at John's hands holding the book. He had lovely hands. Strong and harmonious, his fingers straight and even, the relation between the size of his hands and the length of his fingers aesthetically pleasing, instilling a sense of trust, his fingernails well-shaped and cared for as always. This wasn't the first time Sherlock had noticed. He longed to be touched by those hands. Merely thinking of it now sent a jolt of heat through his body, and he closed his eyes for a moment. He needed John. He wanted John. His body reacted to John. He wanted to be close to John, to understand him, wanted to be familiar with him, secure in his love for him. He wanted to read the journal, and learn. Learn to love. Learn to be loved. He looked up, meeting his friend's eyes.

"Thank you, John," he said, his voice low. "Yes. I'd very much like to read your journal."

John nodded and held the book out to him. Sherlock took it reverently, turned it over in his hands. It was warm from John's hands. He couldn't help it then: he hugged John, pulled him in, burrowed close to this extraordinary, strong man who put things in order with such incomprehensible aplomb.

"Be careful," John whispered, and Sherlock nodded against his neck. "It will hurt," John went on. "Not everything in there about you is flattering. You do realise that?"

Sherlock nodded and squeezed John harder.

"I'll start reading it right away; today," Sherlock confessed. "If you don't want that, then give it to me when it's better for you."

"You can read it if you want. Tonight is fine."

 

***

 

The journal began one day after John had moved into the flat they shared. A description of Sherlock. 

_He's overbearing, arrogant, and thinks he's some kind of genius. His narrow-mindedness fascinates me, especially as it hides the deeply injured man he is behind it all. I like him. I know that much._

Sherlock read the pages, fascinated, with bated breath. He read and read and read. Page after page. Day after day. John's handwriting. Even and harmonious when the descriptions were affectionate. Crooked and irregular when he had doubts or became despondent. Sprawling and wild with anger and disappointment. Sherlock read and was ashamed and shocked by the things John had seen in him. Ashamed at his inattentiveness and arrogance, which had hurt John time and again. Shocked at the unambiguous words John used for him, both negative and positive. He was especially affected by the fact that John had already fallen in love with him in the first few weeks of their shared life. Maybe even the first time they'd laid eyes on each other. 

_I'm not sure if my heart was already lost that day in January when I looked into those pale blue eyes for the first time in the lab at Bart's._

John hadn't written that until several weeks later, when he admitted to his love.

Reading the journal was much more strenuous, more painful and upsetting than Sherlock had ever thought it would be. He was confronted with John's distress and disappointment, with his tough, hopeless battle. He was shaken by the fact that John had considered leaving several times, moving out of 221B Baker Street. And the continued hope he placed in relationships with women: marriage, a family, getting away from Sherlock. A hopeless punt. 

Once, John had even found another flat but decided in favour of Sherlock at the last second – following a horrific internal struggle. 

_I really don't know why I'm doing this, why I'm continuing this torture, staying with this deluded, clueless, snotty, pretentious emotional cripple like some kind of addict. He really has no heart. Why don't I get it? Something in me says different, and I keep falling for it. I don't learn from experience. My natural instinct to flee is gone. This is how far you've fallen, John Watson. You've lost yourself. Like a drug addict. How am I going to get out of here? I can't do it on my own. Maybe my old army revolver is the answer._

Sherlock slammed the journal shut, gasped for air. He was sitting on the couch, staring at nothing, his eyes stinging. Tears ran down his cheeks. John had gone up to his room, and Sherlock considered storming up there, falling into his arms and begging for forgiveness. But then he reminded himself that the entry was several weeks old, and all in the past. And he focused on the present, swearing into the silence of the living room that he was going to be mindful and never again allow John to suffer so egregiously because of him.

It made Sherlock think: why had he never noticed John was hurting like that? But the more he reflected on it, the more he realised he had seen it. John had had his moods and crises, but he, Sherlock, hadn't felt like being bothered by them. He'd ignored it all. What foolish arrogance! Sherlock leapt up, leaving the journal on the couch, went to the window and flung it open. Breathing heavily, he sucked the summer night air into his lungs, greedy, tried to calm himself. _John! My God! Forgive me!_

Sherlock sat down again after a while and continued reading. It wasn't true that John had been waiting for him the whole time. John had tried over and over again. Given signs, sent signals, talked, acted. Time and again. And he, Sherlock, hadn't understood. All the countless courtesies, looks, the conversations, the shared adventures and experiences. Smiles, touches, words, body language. He, Sherlock, had noticed those things and enjoyed them, the attention, the affection. He'd returned them, absolutely, he liked John, had always liked him, that wasn't the issue here. John was his friend. But he'd misunderstood that friendship. All that time. Hadn't been able to properly read the signs, misinterpreted the signals. And whenever John had become more obvious, he'd looked away. 

_When I walk away, he gets jealous and follows me, tries to stay close. When I move toward him, he runs away. Where is this all supposed to lead? And yet I can feel a warmth between us, a fundamental emotion, and I'm absolutely positive there's some connection there, deep down, even if it's an unhappy one._

John's footsteps on the stairs. Sherlock closed the journal, pensive, and stood up. As John entered the living room, Sherlock opened the drawer of his desk and put the journal inside, closed and locked the drawer, took the key out and put it in his trouser pocket. John watched him, nodding briefly when their eyes met.

"Boys, the taxi's waiting!" Mrs Hudson called up the stairs. 

Sherlock took his suit jacket down from the hook on the wall and put it on. He never left the house without appropriate outerwear. They walked down the stairs together, not speaking, and got into the taxi with a fluttery Mrs Hudson. And while she engaged the taxi driver in an animated conversation about fireworks in the front seat, Sherlock buried his face in John's shoulder on the back seat, miserable, as John held him silently.


	11. Fireworks

A starlit sky over Hyde Park. New moon. The Summer Triangle was clear to see in the heavens. Vega. Deneb. Altair. A mythical trifecta. At the northern portal the five-star W of Cassiopaeia, the guardian of the north. Long-tailed Draco twisted around to glare at Hercules with the green eye of Alwaid and the red eye of Etamin. The fallow ribbon of the Milky Way lay shimmering across the night sky. A silent mass of stars. Cygnus alone flew steadfastly toward the south, wings extended, long neck stretched forth toward freedom beyond the horizon, summer's yearning. Mars loomed large and red in Leo.

Sherlock leaned against John as they both sat on the blanket John had brought along, his head on John's shoulder, John's hand in his. In the midst of thousands of people also waiting for the fireworks. Close by a young couple wrapped around each other. Behind them two families with children running and screeching through the crowd in high spirits. An elderly couple, the woman in a wheelchair, the man's hand on her shoulder. Mrs Hudson had run into some friends and gone to join them after seeing John and Sherlock holding hands. 

The park was filled with chatter, murmurs, and sounds. More and more people came looking for a good spot that would allow them to look down at the lake. Some had even climbed up into the trees. Sherlock felt at ease. The physical contact with John made him happy in a way he never would have thought possible. A new sense of being. Belonging. He wouldn't have cared if there were no fireworks after all. He simply enjoyed sitting with John on the darkened meadow, away from the paths and street lamps, looking up into the summer sky.

As midnight approached, the excitement increased. A wave of impatience rippled through the waiting crowd. Families called back their children. Then the lights all over Hyde Park went out. Conversations promptly fell silent and a murmur went through the throng. A clock chimed twelve from the direction of Westminster. All was still and dark. There was no sign or sound from Marutamaya Ogatsu's pyrotechnics team. The tension mounted. 

A spark flew up into the sky from the middle of the Serpentine, straight as an arrow, drawing a thin line across the night. Just as the light reached its crest and began its descent, it released a white sphere from the tip. It floated there for a moment, motionless. Everyone held their breath. An ear-splitting bang, and the night sky was littered with spraying crystals, hissing as they burned before they started to fall. 

John stood up, pulling Sherlock to his feet with him. At the same time, white lights began to leap on the surface of the water, not high, just brief flashes, one here, one there, unpredictable, impossible to know where the next one would crop up. The timing was irregular, but seemed to follow some natural rhythm. An inscrutable harmony.

Sherlock moved behind John, wrapped his arms around him and settled his chin in John's hair. He wasn't ready to relinquish the contact yet. John leaned back against him as they both watched the spectacle of lights becoming wilder and wilder. Long golden ribbons joined the white lights. Different timing. New movements. A mysterious dance. The start of an uninterrupted, breathtaking performance.

The poetry of the fire propagated itself before the eyes of the witnesses in Hyde Park: dynamics, dramaturgy, pacing, combined with a poignant starkness and enchanting charm. Nonstop. No time to breathe. An inferno of the senses. Sherlock felt John's body tense and relax where it pressed against his, felt John hold his breath and let it go again, felt the muscles in John's back, the pressure of his hand in Sherlock's, felt the fireworks in John's body. Fiery images etched into time, just like music that directed the breath with its notes, swept the audience along on a journey of beauty and transience that died as soon as it was consummated.

A slim spark flies straight up into the night and disappears. Silence. Out of the darkness, high up in the heavens, a light unfurls, grows into a glowing ball. It floats for the space of two breaths before beginning to fall. Slowly. Falls and disintegrates on its way to the earth, silent in a shower of light, heavy silver drops. Tears of fire. The lake swallows them up. Black water. Darkness. Emptiness. The smell of smoke and fire. Thousands of people silent and awestruck. Rooted to the spot. A magical night.

Applause breaks out. Thunderous. Thousands of people clapping, stomping, shouting, screaming. The lights come back on. Floodlights. The team of pyrotechnical artists gathers on a wooden pier on the shore, surrounded by billows of smoke. Something like twenty people. They bow stiffly in the cone of light. John's eyes are filled with emotion when they find Sherlock's. They smile at each other, overflowing with happiness.

 

***

 

The mass exodus began. No chance of finding a taxi or Tube car in the next half hour that wasn't full to bursting.

"Let's stay here until the crowd's dispersed," Sherlock said.

"Good idea."

John spread out the blanket on the ground again and dropped down onto it. Sherlock joined him. They lay there next to each other. The starry sky was hidden behind a layer of smoke that spread out lazily over the park in the windless summer night. People walked past them, trying to find a way out to the illuminated paths. Children, blankets, folding chairs. They lay there beside each other; 

Sherlock had already taken John's hand again. He didn't want to let go of this feeling of connectedness. Never again. No matter what it might mean or what others might say about it. Things soon became quiet around them. The people had left. The night stayed. Sherlock looked into John's eyes, and John reached one hand into Sherlock's hair, which was tangled and kinked from the dampness of the night. John pulled him closer and kissed him. It was a gentle, affectionate advance. John surrendered himself with that kiss, offered himself up. He didn't make any demands, didn't ask for anything. He invited possibilities without insisting. 

Sherlock latched onto John's upper lip, intoxicated. John maintained the contact as Sherlock switched to his lower lip, surprisingly enjoying the contrasting emotional sensations. John also maintained the contact when Sherlock released his lower lip without moving away. John carefully ran his tongue along the slit between Sherlock's lips, slipped it in between, seeking, as they slowly parted for him.

"Gentlemen," said a deep voice. "I'm sorry, but you can't stay here."

John and Sherlock jumped apart, startled. A man from the grounds maintenance service stood before them, orange coveralls, basket and broom in his hand.

"The park is closing soon for cleaning. You should go on home."

"Yes, of course," John said as he got up. Sherlock followed his example.

"I'm sorry," the man said again gently. He was a giant – at least one metre ninety. Broad shoulders, flashy wedding ring on his finger. Probably somewhere between thirty and forty years old.

"Not a problem," John said, bundling up the blanket.

"Aren't you Dr Watson?" the man asked cautiously.

"Yes, that's me," John answered, the question behind his words clear. 

The man held out his hand. "Clark Miller," he said. "You save my wife's life. At Bart's. Do you remember? Five weeks ago. Meredith Miller. She had a stillbirth."

"Oh, Meredith Miller. Yes, I remember," John said. "Your daughter – her name was Eve."

"You remember Eve?" the man asked in surprise. His eyes promptly filled with tears.

"Or course I remember Eve," John said quietly. "She was... beautiful." John's voice quavered.

"Yeah, she was," the large man said in a choked voice. His eyes met John's and he swallowed. Then he held out his hand again and John took it.

"Thank you, Dr John Watson," he said softly, and John nodded. "Thank you for saving Meredith. I love her more than my own life, you know. And thank you for remembering Eve, even if she only lived a few minutes."

His voice broke. He sobbed and let go of John's hand. Tears spilled out of his eyes and flooded his face. He wiped them away, embarrassed.

"Say hello to your wife Meredith from me," John said. 

Miller was still crying, but he nodded bravely. "I will, Doctor. Thank you."

Miller turned around and walked away, no good-bye, nothing, just left John and Sherlock behind. John stood there staring into the distance. Sherlock didn't know what to do.

"John?"

John raised a hand as if to fend him off. "Give me a second. Please."

Sherlock waited helplessly. Then he placed one hand on John's shoulder, and John squeezed it.

"It's fine, Sherlock," he said, turning back to his friend. "It's my job. No problem."

"Your job..."

"I was on call in A&E when Meredith Miller was brought in," he explained. "She'd given birth out in the corridor. Eve lived eleven minutes. The only thing left to do was try to save the mother."

"You're one of the few people who saw Eve alive."

"Yeah," was all John said to that. "Let's go home."

Sherlock hooked his arm through John's as they walked across the darkened field to the nearest footpath. He didn't trust himself enough to take John's hand. John wasn't there with him. He was with Eve. With Meredith. With Clark. John had been working A&E that day, five weeks ago, and Sherlock didn't feel it was his place to interfere with those memories. 

John stopped when they arrived at the path. He turned to Sherlock but didn't look up at him.

"I fought for Eve's life for eleven minutes, but it was for nothing," he said. "The paediatrician on call could probably have managed it. But she didn't get there in time."

"It's not your fault, John."

"It is. I'd sent her on break five minutes earlier."

John went on then, strode purposely down the path. Sherlock kept up with him, not speaking. He didn't even dare to touch John anymore. He'd never bothered to think about what John went through at work on a daily basis. He'd never asked, and John had never talked about it. John had sometimes withdrawn after work, worn and pensive, and he, Sherlock, had thought nothing of it. He'd never realised before how closely tied John's work was with human drama. How deeply involved he was in those processes, how close he was to death, to pain, to desperation. And as he walked at John's side through the night, he began to have an inkling of just how much strength and composure John carried with him. He'd been to war, had seen all that horror and misery. And he'd been able to deal with it. His job. 

Sherlock was filled with wonder. A deep, powerful wonder that permeated him to the core. Awe. Respect. Pride. Pride and amazement that a man like John loved him. A man who shot people over great distances with an army revolver, his aim true and deadly, when the situation called for it. His hand steady. The same steady hand with which he saved people whenever possible. The same steady, confident hand with which he was waiting for him, for Sherlock. And Sherlock understood then all of a sudden that John could afford to have emotions. He was confident enough. He could partake, empathise, and cry. He endured injury. He could love and wait. He wasn't afraid. He was strong.

"I'm sorry, Sherlock," John said when they were standing in the living room on Baker Street, just arrived, uncertain what to do next. "Sometimes I can't just shut off things like that."

"It's your job," Sherlock said with a smile. "You know better than anyone that I can't shut mine off either."

"Sleep in my room?" John asked.

"If you'd like."

"If I recall, we did promise."

"I'll be right there."

John had left the bedroom door open a crack. The lamp on the nightstand was dimmed. The clock read three a.m. Sherlock slipped into the room and closed the door behind himself. John was in bed. He'd turned onto his side and was already asleep. Sherlock undressed, laid his clothes over the chair and joined John under the light cotton coverlet. John wore a t-shirt and shorts to sleep in. As usual. Sherlock slept in the nude. As usual. Sherlock turned off the lamp and cuddled up to John's back, put his arm around John's waist, pressed his face into John's nape. John sighed in his sleep. The night was mild. The curtain billowed in the open window. The city outside. People who had seen the fireworks. People waiting helplessly in an emergency. People dying. People despairing. People making love. Making children, perhaps. People who were happy. Like him. And, perhaps, like John.


	12. Encounter

A fresh morning breeze wafted across Sherlock's nude body, setting off a wave of goosepimples. Sherlock groped woozily for the blanket and wrapped it around himself. It smelt of John and made him feel utterly at ease. Everything smelt of John. Sherlock opened his eyes a crack. It was light out, and he remembered that he was in John's room, lying in John's bed. Last night, the fireworks, the kiss, the maintenance worker, Eve, John sleeping. Sherlock stretched luxuriantly. The space next to him in bed was empty, but he heard John coming up the stairs. 

He was freshly showered, towel around his neck, dressing gown, the scent of ambergris and seaweed, hair damp. He sat down next to Sherlock on the bed, ruffled his friend's dark, tousled hair affectionately.

"Good morning, Sherlock!"

Grey eyes, wide and soft. Sherlock smiled into them. John smiled back.

"Isn't it Sunday?" Sherlock asked.

"All day."

"You're getting up already?"

"I just wanted to take a shower," John said, still smiling.

Sherlock snuggled under the wonderfully scented blanket and looked John over. His smile, his presence. Outside, the change ringing of a quarter peal called the faithful to worship services. The enchantment of a summer Sunday.

They looked at each other. A lingering gaze. Sherlock lost himself in the grey eyes, the warmth in their depths. Like a calm lake, its surface rippled by a light breeze, the morning sun scattering light across it and making it sparkle. Then a gust of wind suddenly whipped up waves, imprinting the water with a dark, moving pattern that spread quickly, unstoppable, engulfing everything in its path. John let it happen, and Sherlock saw his eyes fill with desire, overflowing, and withstood it. Withstood it spilling over onto him, hot and sudden, seizing his body without there being anything he could do about it. 

He was startled by the strength of his own reaction and by what was now open to him, the possibility, the invitation, promise, adventure. He hesitantly reached out his hand to John, and John lay down beside him, slowly, no rush. Sherlock closed his eyes when John's fingers combed through his hair, John's lips nestled in between his, John's body found his, the heat and hardness of his sex palpable through the summer coverlet and the dressing gown.

Sherlock didn't want that, didn't want the blanket or the dressing gown between them. He wanted John. Just John. He placed his hands on John's face, nudged him away a little, gently, took away the towel, slid his hand over John's shoulder underneath the dressing gown, pushed the soft material down John's arms and when it caught he undid the knot on the belt, pulled it open, removed the garment entirely from John's body. Breathless. John didn't move. 

Sherlock examined his naked body, fascinated: the powerful thighs, the rigid genitals, hip bones, muscular abdomen, well-trained body, wiry forearms, pale hairs on tanned skin, on his lovely, smooth, strong hands. John's eyes open wide, clouded with arousal. Sherlock peeled himself out of the coverlet, flung it back behind him, exposing his whole body. All of it. For John.

The morning air drifted over them. Sherlock lifted his hand and touched John's lips, ran his fingers inquisitively down John's neck. His pulse was racing. John's skin was hot and soft and damp. The curve of his collarbone, ribs, nipples. John moaned softly when Sherlock touched them, tested how hard they were, surprised by the lust chasing through both of them. 

John turned onto his back with a sigh, surrendered himself to Sherlock, to his hands, his erotic explorations. Sherlock stroked John's stomach, felt beneath his hands as John's breaths came faster, deeper; pale, thick pubic hair, dampness in the creases of his groin, firm thigh muscles. Sherlock moved his hands between John's legs, the skin hot and lightly furred, his perineum moist, his testicles soft. John's penis lay erect on his abdomen. Sherlock picked it up with one hand, stroked down its length, fascinated. It got even harder at the touch of his fingers, causing his own cock to swell noticeably. John moaned when Sherlock ran his tongue across the exposed glans, exploring the texture of the skin down his entire length, intoxicated by the surge of arousal that sprang from John over to him. 

John dug his hands into the pillows, his body writhed, and Sherlock gave in to his own desire and took John's cock into his mouth, licked and sucked on it carefully, let it slide through his hand, ran his tongue over it, let himself be swept up in the heat, felt John, every twitch, his tension, his increasing fire. John's breath, his moans, the smell of sweat mixing with the scent of the shower gel.   
Sherlock felt John's arousal approaching its climax, felt the wave approaching both of them, inundating them, the shaking, the contractions, John arching up, John's semen spurting out over his hand. Sherlock was panting. His own erection throbbed painfully between his legs.

John sat up slowly, gave Sherlock the towel and pushed him down gently against the pillows. Sherlock capitulated when he felt John's hands on his body, John's breath on his skin, his lips, his tongue. He closed his eyes and gave in to the lust bubbling up hotly inside him, taking his breath away. He let himself be dragged down into the whirlpool, no resistance, into the inevitability of what was happening. He gave himself up, gave himself over into John's hands. Utterly. John didn't play with him, didn't string him along. John delivered him with tender loving care.

They embraced afterwards, intimate and fond, their nude bodies together, entwined. Sighing, kissing, teasing. Sherlock enjoyed the feeling of John's warm hands on his bare back, his hips, his neck. He enjoyed the scent of heated skin and the implicitness with which their legs and their bodies wrapped around each other, relaxed, familiar, as if they had been doing it for years.

"This time both of us together," John whispered in Sherlock's ear when renewed heat flared up between them following a passionate kiss. 

Sherlock sought John's gaze, looked into his clear eyes, pale in the summer morning light spilling into the room through the wide-open window, barely impeded by the thick curtain. _Both of us. Together._ The adventure hadn't begun yet. Not even this incredible intimacy between them, this complete mutual surrender, was what bound them to each other. Sherlock shivered. John placed his hand on Sherlock's cheek. _Both of us_. The morning sun dabbled in John's eyes, set in motion by the pattern of the curtain billowing in the morning breeze. Sherlock touched John's hand where it rested on his cheek with the tips of his fingers. He didn't speak. He couldn't take his eyes off John's, off the shadowy landscape he longed for that was spread out in their depths. And he knew that he was ready to meet John. On any level. Whatever it might mean.

John kissed his face, his eyes, his hairline, soft, warm breath, established a pace on his skin, in his hair, a pulse, a rhythm of tenderness. Slow. Intimate. A count in seconds. Time. Sherlock picked up the rhythm, internalised it, nestled close to John's body and felt the beat pulsing through both of them, filling them both. Sherlock took John's face in his hands and kissed him in the trance of that beat, sucked in John's lower lip, felt the beat throbbing in his loins. Sherlock allowed himself to be led by the rhythm as he ran his tongue down John's neck, licked his throat, his chin, his mouth, crowded in between John's lips, touched his tongue. Sherlock's head was full of the beat, sixteenth ligatures becoming faster and faster, flirting with the sixth, wild, chasing beyond it. 

He slid on top of John, nestled against him, hungering for closeness, for togetherness, ground his erection into him. John arched up, opened his legs, made room for him and at the same time reduced the amount of space between them before returning Sherlock's kiss and urging him on, insistent now, unrestrained, no more questions. Frantic sixteenths disintegrated into trioles, burst into arpeggios, untamed, harsh, uncontrollable. 

A signal broke the rhythm of their bodies. John's fingers had brushed the side of Sherlock's head. Their eyes met. Time expanded into a broad landscape flooded with sunlight. The leaves of the trees in Regent's Park when the summer breeze passed through them. John's fingers barely a whisper on his temple, in his hair. The beat of the seconds spreading beneath wilting arpeggios. Low. Clear. A plainsong. Sherlock let himself sink into it, reeling. _Both of us. Together._ The expanse in John's eyes, a lake in their depths. The connection between their bodies, shared heat. And that incredible, familiar expanse in John's eyes. The dark lake. 

Longing spun a spindle around in the centre of Sherlock's chest, abrupt and painful, yanked strings together, twisted them into a hard, unyielding knot. Sherlock gasped for air. Stuttering. Panting. Sucked it deep into his body, down to the last fibre, tried to break through the tightness, to shatter the pull of the spindle, felt John's body beneath his desperate inhalations, warm, strong hands holding him steady, their erections lying together peacefully. And he gave in, gave in to the pressure of the spindle, let the pain spread through his body, let it rise up into his throat and flood him with tears, just for a moment, before the tears and the pain dissolved, as rapidly and unexpectedly as they had appeared.

Sherlock surrendered to John's embrace once he could breathe again, slid off him without interrupting their entanglement. They lay beside each other, their faces just far enough apart that they could look into each other's eyes, warm breath mixing, the tension of unfulfilled desire still hovering between them. Sherlock didn't know what had happened to him. He saw the gravity in John's eyes, the sadness, saw the grey eyes become soft and damp. He opened himself to John. Completely. Amazed at how wide that opening was, at the stillness in its core. Surprised that out of that stillness, that motionlessness, that utter focus, perhaps, a fever took hold of his body, a boundless excitement that spread like a shiver and grew until it became unbearable. 

They remained poised like that for a moment, looking at each other, breathless. Sherlock felt the heavy fullness of their loins, felt the trembling in John's body, saw the glow of ecstasy in John's eyes. Then all bets were off. They reached for each other, beyond reason, at the mercy of a mindless rapture. Sherlock lost all sense of control, all sense of thought, let himself be swept away by unbridled desire, surrendered to the wave that carried him along indiscriminately. He felt John's energy, his force reaching into him, a potent game of give and take. Both of us. John. To the lake. Sherlock knew he wanted to go to the lake, that his ecstasy would lead him there. John's lake. A storm sweeping into the crowns of the trees, howling and tearing leaves from the branches, whipping them across the plain. Far. Fast. Breathless. John. John's heat, his breath, his scent, his power. A tumultuous passion.

In the midst of the tumult, John reaches into the pocket of his dressing gown. Sherlock cries out softly as John pushes him away with one hand, keeping him at a distance, forcing him to wait, panting, until he's prepared, prepares both of them, himself and Sherlock, his hand steady, even now amidst this crazy frenzy, spreading the lubricant on Sherlock's cock, holding him off with the other hand – Sherlock on the edge of control – and then reaches into Sherlock's hair with both hands and looks him in the eye.

Sherlock swallowed. A deep mountain lake. Clouds passing by overhead. A gust of wind rippling the water, pouring black ink into it. A distant rumble of thunder. Come. John pulling him along, he lets himself be pulled, lets himself be led by John, quaking. Responsibility. Steady. A moment's pause. Heart racing. In the middle of the woods. In the middle of the storm. Heavy gusts driving dust, needles, leaves and bits of wood across the plain. 

Sherlock felt John with his entire body, saw every emotion in those grey eyes. Even the brief shadow of a doubt that gave him pause. Only for a fraction of a second, before longing and desire overcame him with uncontrollable might, he felt John's complaisance and pushed himself into the hot, wet channel, slowly, deeper and deeper, barely able to rein in his hunger for closeness and union, for assimilation and possession, his eyes locked on John's, the lake churning, breath stuttering. Their bodies joined. The lake black. Sherlock lets himself sink into it, his breath coming in fitful jerks, every breath drawing a sound out of the depths, hips moving in desperation. A pause at the edge of the abyss. Hand in hand. Teetering. Fingers interlaced. Heat. Plainsong. Tonic. Safety. 

Sherlock feels it as he loses himself, his body, his soul, an aimless flight, loses himself in John, in the black lake, a spark suddenly springing forth from its surface, up into the night. It sweeps everything along with it. Sweeps up Sherlock and sweeps up John. Sweeps up the lake, shoots hotly into the sky, scraping over wounds and scars. Sherlock's hoarse cry. A sphere separates from the spark and explodes into thousands of crystals that fill the night sky, etching lines deep into body and soul before raining down, slowly, in soft, heavy silvery drops, redemptive, silent, falling into the lake, into the black depths which absorb them and swallow them up. Cooling water. The open G string. The sound echoing. The individual vibrations collapse in the treble line. The dominant lingers for a moment longer, barely audible, the tonic of the plainsong.

The summer breeze made the curtain billow, wafted across their naked bodies. Sherlock pulled the cotton coverlet over himself and John. They smiled at each other. The first sign of merriment and joy after a long daze and quiet earnest. After deep gazes and shy tenderness marked by reverence and love. They both knew that what they had reached together wasn't the final destination. They had set out together on a journey to unknown lands whose dangerous beauty they had only sampled a small portion of. 

_When we come together, Sherlock and I, that encounter will be portentous in its physical aspect too, just like it was from the very first moment between us. I long for the beauty and the danger that encounter promises, yet its claims to absoluteness scare me. But yes. I'm ready to walk that path._

They were both familiar with those final sentences from John's journal.


	13. The Gift

The bow felt different in his hand. Heavier at the tip. The up-bow sounded warmer than usual. The down-bow more mellow. Sherlock took the bow off the strings and checked the tension of the hair, tightened the screw on the frog, and settled the violin between his chin and shoulder. He tried a few strokes, ran through some scales. The bow bounced too light. Too hard. He needed a softer position, otherwise he wouldn't be able to get through Variation 2 with its painfully escalating chaos of sounds. But he also needed a firm, steady response between bow and strings, otherwise he wouldn't be able to get through all of the variations. The quick sixteenth notes in the first variation should be cheerful and distinct. And the third, with the laidback plainsong, needed a high degree of transparency, including in the sound. On the other hand, the fourth variation in the major key, wild and whirling, needed a solid grounding. And then there was Variation 5, pensive, inquisitive, idiosyncratic. And the Intermezzo. It concerned him. The Intermezzo didn't fit the pattern, yet it formed the core of the entire piece. A four-part revelation. Sherlock was torn.

He set the violin aside and took the soft microfibre cloth out of the violin case. He loosened the bow a little and wiped the rosin off the horsehair. Sometimes it helped to start from scratch with the friction. He didn't want to leave anything untried, even if he didn't set much hope in it. He was engaged in a virtual battle for the right sound. But the problem wasn't in the bow, he was sure of that. He didn't know where the problem lay. 

Maybe because it had been raining for two days straight, the air humid and warm. London grey. Maybe it was because the tension in his hand was different, the tone of his thenar and hypothenar muscles not like usual, which altered the position of his thumb and pinky, in turn making him hold the bow differently. Or the muscles of his forearm were sending different signals to the tendons in his hand, were looser or tighter, the angle different. Sherlock couldn't say. He was restless. Everything was different. 

Sherlock was irritated. He couldn't concentrate. He'd been practising the variations for two days but they didn't sound the way he'd thought. He couldn't play anymore. Couldn't practise. He couldn't even find the right bow tension, and that was something he'd always been able to set without any trouble, without even thinking about it, with a few flicks of the wrist that had become second nature over the years.

If he'd been preoccupied with thinking about John, he might have understood it. But that wasn't the case. He wasn't thinking about John. John was a part of him. He was full of John. All the creative anxiety he'd been suffering earlier was gone. The yearning had become concrete. Painfully so. It had settled in his body as well as in his mind, his emotions, his thoughts, it was just as present in his groin, in his hands, his lips as it was in his heart and in his head. It was more concrete than he'd ever imagined. The vague daydreaming, the fear, the hope and trepidation, it was all gone. Made room for something new that he wasn't prepared for.

The physical component of their relationship was still young. A few days in which they'd greedily caught up on everything they'd denied themselves for so long. John had gone back to work two days ago. His part-time job at Bart's usually involved him being on call. Irregular hours. Impossible to predict when he'd come home, and in what condition. John needed sleep too. Sherlock comforted himself with the hope that everything would work out, would somehow come together into a routine, familiar, convenient, stable, a firm foundation they could both build on. That his mind and heart would be free again in time, just like the attentive mind of the warrior finds peace, strength, and freedom in the thousand-fold practise of the kata.

Up to now, he had only found that longed-for freedom in the satiation and calm following their unions. It didn't last. Not even for a day. Not yet. _John._

Sherlock tightened the bow again, carefully applied a small amount of rosin, picked up the violin again and re-tuned the strings. He planned to give John his gift today: the leather-bound manuscript. And to play the piece for him. There was no pressing need to do it today, other than the fact that Sherlock wanted to be free of it. He had trouble practising the variations and playing them the way he'd written them. But it needed to be done eventually. And today was a good time. 

He'd been at the Yard that morning and Lestrade had a new case for him. A small one, but it was welcome in light of his emotional situation. Any distraction was good. He'd be present when the witness was interrogated tomorrow afternoon. John wasn't working tomorrow morning, and they had a long evening to themselves. Sherlock wanted to go out with John, wanted to be surrounded by people. Wanted to enjoy his happiness. Outside. Before the eyes of others. In real life. Before he threw himself into the case the following day.

Sherlock started with Variation 1, ran through the part with the flageolet a couple of times. Then he turned his attention to the transition from the cheerful first part to the darker second half. The difference needed to be audible. Clearly audible. The subtext. The shadow, the fear of the depths. Then Variation 3, the fearsome roar of the storm, the simple, straightforward power of the plainsong in the background. Sherlock cursed himself for having composed such a technically difficult variation. He practised it over and over. He was no beginner. Passable. 

The problem was the Intermezzo. A short yet complex piece that ran the gamut of every possible emotion in a short period of time, which meant that it demanded everything of him. The fierce pursuit of the octave, only to transcend it with such delicacy. The floundering coupled with the strength of the search for reality, for what was genuine and true. And then a sparse, powerful simplicity. Unexpected. And the ending a complex combination of everything. It was quite a challenge. Sherlock wasn't sure if he had the ability to convey the meaning he'd intended. 

Variation 4 was no problem, all he had to do was maintain the pace of the runs and changes in fingering positions. On the other hand, Variation 5 was challenging with the theme reduced to the bare minimum, yet still unpredictable, sending out queries into an unknown realm and demanding absolute tonal concentration. Sherlock knew he couldn't practise the aspects relating to the underlying meaning, and he didn't want to. Either the music spoke for itself, or it was hollow.

Sherlock decided abruptly that the piece was ready to perform for John. It was time to get ready. He cleaned the violin and the bow. Put them both away in the case. He'd taped together the sheet music so that he could play all of the variations without turning any pages – he was playing from his draft copy which he'd added fingerings and bowing notations to, rather than from the fair copy. 

Sherlock took a shower and dressed with care for dinner at One Twenty One Two at the Horseguards. It was the first time they were going to get together outside their flat since their relationship had moved to the next level. Sherlock was looking forward to it.

 

***

 

John was already sitting at the table, a sherry in front of him. He'd taken his suit along to the clinic and got ready there. He looked fantastic. John stood up when he saw Sherlock coming over, and Sherlock greeted him with a hug, restrained, but the message was clear: it would be more if they weren't in public. John's embrace was firm and confident. 

The waiter smiled. "Another sherry?" he asked.

"Yes, thank you."

They sat on opposite sides of the table and smiled at each other. Sherlock's heart was beating in his throat. He was shaking. Every fibre of his body was trembling, light but noticeable. It made it hard to breathe, the fact that he couldn't do what he'd taken for granted over the past few days, that he couldn't close the distance, couldn't touch John, feel him, smell him, surrender in his arms to the desire that had built up in him. A strong magnetic force between them, one that he was only able to withstand with great effort. The table between them. 

Sherlock took a deep breath, closed his eyes for a moment to escape John's gaze. Then he leaned back in his chair, groped absently for the menu, and tried to relax. At least on the outside.

The meal was excellent, although they weren't really able to enjoy it. They couldn't keep their eyes off each other, couldn't filter out the undercurrent of heat. Their feet eventually found each other under the table and they gratefully allowed the contact, ignoring the waiter's pointed look. 

Sherlock kept reaching across the table to touch John's hand, just for a few moments. It was torture. They chatted about unimportant matters without really talking. Their eyes and their body language spoke only of one thing. And yet another one managed to make itself heard too. At some point, Sherlock slid the leather-bound binder across the table to John.

"For you," he said simply.

Surprise in John's eyes. He picked up the book, curious, his fingers stroking and perusing the leather. Then he opened it. Leafed through it. Did a double take. Looked into Sherlock's eyes, disbelieving.

"I wrote it when you were at Harry's," Sherlock said.

"For me? Are you sure?"

Sherlock smiled. "Very sure. Who else should I have been thinking of the whole time? Constantly."

John swallowed. His expression became heated. A feeling of affection washed over Sherlock. John took the book off the table and leaned back to make room as the waiter put an espresso down in front of him. John pushed the cup aside as soon as the waiter was gone, put the book back on the table and started reading it. 

Sherlock was surprised. Could John read music? Did he understand anything about music? He'd assumed that wasn't the case, but they'd never discussed it.

"Will you play it for me?" John asked. Sherlock nodded silently.

"Tonight?"

"If you'd like."

"Yeah," John said. "Yeah, I'd like that. But not first thing."

Sherlock smiled. "Let's get going then."

"I was just about to suggest that."

They smiled at each other. Sherlock waved to the waiter and asked for the bill. While they waited for it, John reached across the table and laced his fingers through Sherlock's, squeezed long and hard, his expression gentle and earnest.

"Thank you, Sherlock," he said softly before withdrawing his hand a while later, when the waiter came back with the bill.

They walked out, putting their arms around each other as soon as they were outside, before they'd even hailed a cab, kissing hungrily, filled with impatience in the darkness of the side street, and Sherlock swore to himself never, ever to go out with John before they'd had time for each other at home first.

 

***

 

It was past midnight when Sherlock – in a t-shirt and pyjama bottoms – took his violin out of the case and tuned it. He was relaxed, completely at ease, the bow felt good, the tension was perfect. John sat on the couch in his dressing gown, his legs drawn up, the leather book in his hands, closed. He put it on the table as Sherlock organised his sheet music on the music stand and got ready to play.

" _Theme with Variations_ ," Sherlock said. "First the theme. Then five variations on it, with an intermezzo inserted after the third one. You'll hear it. After that come the fourth and fifth variations, and at the end I play the theme again."

John nodded. Sherlock plucked the E string to check it, settled the violin under his chin, and placed the bow on the strings. A deep breath. Calm. A brief, soft up-bow, then the long downstroke on C. A single tone unfurling, full and rich, filling the living room. Sherlock played with his eyes closed. He knew the theme by heart, traced the notes as they rose to the ceiling, spread through the room, made contact with the plaster on the ceiling, the stucco, made nooks and corners reverberate, the bookcase, skittered along the stone mantelpiece, let himself be carried along into the first variation, into that smile, John's smile. 

John looked up, surprised, and their eyes met. John's smile. The touch, the shadow. Wistful affection in John's grey eyes. The flageolet stealing away through the stucco. Silence fell over the living room.

Sherlock took a deep, cleansing breath before launching into Variation 2 with a powerful stroke. Suffering. Fear. Paralysis. Screeching. John gasped. Tumult, a wild staccato that was smothered in the curtains. Sherlock retuned the violin.

The blowing of the wind in the leaves of the trees. A light undercurrent of sound awoke beneath the plainsong. A storm. And the victory of peace and security over frenzied motion. Sherlock let a few seconds pass, switched out the sheet music before starting in on the intermezzo. Calm. Knowing that the tightly packed piece could only be comprehended as a whole if he made space for each of the four parts. Sherlock didn't look up as he played the simple line, the tone warm, a faint trembling from the bow, from his hand, unintentional, and he let it happen as it was.

Sherlock needed a moment to gather himself following the complicated fourth part of the intermezzo, before Variation 4 with its crazy tempo. Then he swept through the runs, let the notes fly and tumble, and saw John smile. Sherlock moved quickly on to Variation 5. The most difficult one. A fractured structure an a glimpse into the depths. A beat measured in seconds. The theme dissolved. An existential sparsity. The conclusion a single note.

Sherlock took a deep breath before playing the theme again. By heart. Quietly this time. Without being able to prevent the melancholy that crept in, making him pensive. The last note faded away in the living room, an overtone lingered in the chimney, emptiness gaping behind it. The ticking of the clock was missing. A wave of emotion that threatened to tear the rug out from under Sherlock's feet. He closed his eyes for a moment to regain his composure. Then he lowered both violin and bow, relaxed his shoulder. He had a headache. The act of playing had taken more out of him that he wanted to admit. Everything was a jumble inside him.

John was sitting bolt upright, his back against the backrest, his head held high, his eyes closed, motionless. His breathing heavy and irregular. One hand clutching the cushion, the stiff tendons clearly visible. Sherlock loosened the bow, cleaned it, slid it into place in the bracket in the lid of the violin case. When he finally looked over at John, their eyes met. John's grey eyes. And now that they were looking at each other, those eyes filled with tears.

"You're mad, Sherlock," John whispered. "How can anyone come up with music like that?"

Sherlock thought about it for a moment while he cleaned the fingerboard of his instrument with the cloth.

"When they're in love," he replied.

Rosin dust had collected under the bridge. Sherlock carefully wiped it away, removed the fingerprints from the lacquer and put the instrument into its case, closing both of the latches.

"I don't know how to accept a present like this, Sherlock," John said.

Sherlock observed his friend, still sitting there, his posture taut. He didn't know what John had heard. He didn't know what had been communicated between them, all those things that superseded any logic.

"It's not just the music, John," Sherlock said. "It's what you hear in it. You might be the only one who can hear it. No one else. That's why it's for you. So just accept it."

Sherlock flopped down onto the couch next to John, dropped his head into John's lap and closed his eyes. John's hand immediately went to his hair, automatic. John's other hand on his stomach. Sherlock took it in his own hands, felt John relax.

"Thank you, Sherlock," John said after a while, and Sherlock squeezed John's hand, looking up into the grey eyes. He smiled and nodded. Didn't say anything. He was tired. Maybe even happy. He loved spending time with John like this, simple and unspectacular, just lying there on the couch in the peace and quiet of the living room and letting time pass.

"The wall clock's gone missing," said John.

"It's being fixed."

John caressed Sherlock's face, tugged on his curls with a sigh.

"Shall we go to bed?"


	14. Postlude

Sherlock stopped in his tracks in surprise. He came to a full stop right there on the staircase, cutting off the momentum with which he'd been running up the stairs. He stood perfectly still. A flageolet? High and clear. In the flat at 221B Baker Street? Impossible. The next tone – a different one – blown too hard, the onset soft. Then the tone caught hold, swelled briefly before moving on to a delicate pianissimo. And now he could hear that it was a clarinet playing – Sherlock could hardly believe it – the opening notes of the theme of his variations. In a clear, confident tone. Sherlock listened, baffled. The warm sound, sustained by breath. The melody he'd carried with him in his heart for so long, that he'd worked on for so long, that was so closely tied to his emotions, his soul, his most intimate feelings. That oh so familiar melody. And this foreign, timbred, aloof, dark, emotional sound. The clarinet. Mid-register. Astonishing. Confusing. He shivered. Goosepimples spread across his skin. It was coming from upstairs. From John's room.

Sherlock went up, curious, being careful not to trigger any creaks in the old wooden stairs. Step by step. One after the other. All for nothing. The stairs groaned under every one of his footsteps and Sherlock couldn't shake the strange feeling that the wood creaked louder and more elaborately the slower he went. While he was trying to be quiet, the first cheerful measures of Variation 1 sounded from upstairs. They stopped abruptly when Sherlock knocked on the door to John's room.

"Come in!" John called. "Why are you knocking?"

Sherlock opened the door. John stood there with a clarinet in his hand, the leather book open on the music stand. Behind it Johann Müller's _Etudes_. On the bed lay Stamitz, Händel, Mozart, Kummer, Spohr. Sherlock looked over the setting as if it were a crime scene. The facts allowed only one conclusion.

"You play clarinet?" Sherlock formulated it as a question, quite unnecessarily. He could see it, he'd heard it. Taken note of it. There was no alternative, no second person in John's room who might have been playing. What a ridiculous question! But he was too surprised, too confused to say anything sensible. 

John smiled. "Yeah, I play clarinet. Didn't I ever tell you?"

"Not that I recall."

"I had it restored," John said cheerfully. "New mouthpiece and the lower part of the key mechanism needed to be replaced. And the reeds, of course. It's a Boehm B, but the keys are handmade, excellent mechanics, very responsive. I'm quite happy with it. Look. Isn't it lovely?"

John beamed, held the instrument out to Sherlock, who took it, wary and uncertain. Around 700 grams. Grenadilla wood. Sixty-six centimetres. A beautiful instrument.

"And it's easier to play than I'd remembered," John said enthusiastically. "I don't know why I dropped it for so long. It's perfect. I didn't remember how much I love it, how familiar it feels, how easy it is to play."

He smiled happily at Sherlock and took the instrument back.

"You're playing my variations," Sherlock noted. 

John smiled. "Of course! You gave them to me. I admit I'm a bit rusty. It's been a few years. But I've started lessons at the RCM. It feels really good to work with the instrument intensively again."

"The Royal College of Music?" Sherlock asked, bewildered.

"I know Jonah Peller from before," John said casually. "He's giving me some warmup lessons."

"Peller? THE Peller?"

"We used to play together. I was in the university orchestra and he was just starting out as a soloist." John laughed.

Sherlock felt like he couldn't tell up from down anymore. John played the clarinet. A wonderful instrument, with a muted, velvety tone that rang out pure and clear despite its mellow nature. John knew Jonah Peller from his university orchestra and was taking lessons from him at the RCM. It was all so unexpected. How could he have been so naïve as to assume that John didn't play an instrument! John came from a middle-class family that valued a well-rounded education. He'd attended university. He went to concerts now and then. More often, unfortunately, with those women he dated than with Sherlock. But that, Sherlock decided on the spur of the moment, was going to change.

"Based on the music here you're not a beginner," Sherlock said. He'd picked up one of the books of sheet music from the bed and leafed through it. Hoffmeister, Sonata No. 2 in D Major.

"I started when I was – let me see – eight years old and took lessons all the way through until I was done with school. Thirteen years," John said. "I liked to play. And I played a lot. Grammar school orchestra, jazz band, chamber ensemble, you know, the usual stuff. I guess it adds up to a lot in the end."

 _The usual stuff_. Sherlock swallowed, his throat dry. He'd played in his grammar school orchestra too, but not for long. The rehearsals had bored him and the other musicians had annoyed him, along with the conductor and the selection of pieces. Basically everything. Then there had been a quartet at uni. Challenging. It had been fun for almost two years. Then he'd become so incensed over the new cellist that he'd quit. He hadn't been involved in music with anyone else since. No one. No lessons, no interactions, no advanced training.

John was taking his clarinet apart and cleaning it.

"I need to practise your variations some more," he mentioned as he loosened the ligature, took off the reed and carefully stowed it in its case. Then he separated the instrument into its component parts and started to clean it. 

Sherlock had placed the sonata back on the bed and watched John closely. He didn't know how to care for a clarinet.

"Variation 2 is particularly challenging. I'll need to have a look at it with Jonah and see how it can be played on a clarinet," John said, pulling the cloth through the barrel and rubbing it dry.

"You're practising the variations with Jonah Peller," Sherlock stated, underwhelmed. Not just because it meant that John was meeting regularly with another man who shared his love for the clarinet, but above all because in doing so, John was passing on Sherlock's intimate present, in a manner of speaking. Or was at least sharing it with someone who didn't deserve it. It hurt in an unexpected way, and he struggled for a moment with the initial stirrings of jealousy.

John had the upper joint in his hand now, rubbing the cork dry. He paused when he heard Sherlock's voice and the undertone in it, and gave his friend a searching look.

"Sherlock," he said carefully. "There's only one reason for me to see Jonah, and we've only scheduled a couple of hours. I want to be able to play your variations. Do you understand?"

Sherlock nodded half-heartedly.

John pulled the cloth through the instrument and cleaned the key mechanism.

"You know," he said without looking up, "when you gave me these variations, I thought I should take them for what they are: music. Music that can be heard, that elicits emotions, that challenges. Not just notations on a page."

John put the upper joint into the case and started on the lower joint.

"I want to have that music in my body," said John. "In my head, in my hands, and in my lips."

Their eyes met. 

"So that's what I'm working on," he added in a low voice.

Sherlock searched the grey eyes; they were soft and mild. Affectionate and earnest. Then John turned to his clarinet again, calmly, cleaned the rest of the pieces and put them into the case.

Sherlock watched him, observed how he treated the instrument. How natural and confident he was with it. John's words echoed in him, and it was then that he realised more than ever before that John was an equal partner to him. In every way. He closed his eyes for a moment and took a deep breath. Pride and love flowed through him.

"What are your plans for tonight, John?" he asked.

"Nothing. We could cook something and stay home. Or we could go out. Whatever you like."

"A date?" Sherlock asked. He smiled, but the question was quite serious.

"With you? Anytime!"

John closed the clarinet case and put it away in the cupboard, gathered up the sheet music from the bed and put it in too.

"But no hospital talk," Sherlock said.

"Agreed. No cases either."

"What then?"

John shrugged. "Everything else?"

"Like what?"

"Astronomy," John said archly. "Semantics. Politics. Plato's philosophy. Or Plutarch's if you prefer." John winked, but wasn't sure if Sherlock had understood what he meant. "Anatomy, organic chemistry, mysticism, alchemy..." John continued.

"Noether's theorem," Sherlock said. John gave him a sceptical look. Thought for a moment. Then he smiled. 

"Okay," he said. "And music, especially woodwinds."

Sherlock smiled back. "Fine," he said. "We'll go out, go on a date together – with all the implications – and talk about Emmy Noether and music, especially the clarinet."

"Perfect."

"Give me an hour to read up on woodwinds, the history and literature," Sherlock requested.

"And give me and hour and half to google Emmy Noether and – maybe, don't get your hopes up – to understand the theorem," John replied cheerfully.

Sherlock smiled. "Seven-thirty?"

"Perfect!"

Sherlock turned to go.

"Oh, before I forget," John said. "About the variations: you dedicated them to me and gave them to me, but you still hold the copyright, yeah?"

Sherlock stopped where he was. "Yes," he said. "As far as I know that is the usual procedure. The copyright remains with the author unless there's some contract in place. Why do you ask?"

"I just wanted to be sure," John replied. "I'll tell Jonah he should ask you directly in that case."

"Do you mean Peller?"

John grinned. "He was so excited. I think he wants to perform the variations. I already said he should talk to you about it. I just want to be able to play them. I don't have anything else to do with it." John raised both hands meaningfully. Then he smiled, put one hand on Sherlock's back and pressed his lips to Sherlock's temple for a second, a fleeting endearment as he passed by him on his way to the stairs.

"I'll shower first," he called back up to Sherlock, who stood there speechless. He then took a deep breath and realised he was still wearing his street clothes and desperately needed a shower too. And he decided to make good use of their time together that evening to start a new, rather lively chapter of their life together: the clarinet. Emmy Noether was long dead anyway.

 

THE END


End file.
